What The Hell Happened?

As many of you know, I got married in May. Let me prefix this with: It was a great wedding and my wife is the absolute greatest. Now, on with my point here: Throughout my single years, I have owned several automobiles, most of which were actually registered and insured. From junk to new, cars to trucks, I have owned quite a few vehicles in my days. I also have wrecked quite a few, too, but that is another blog. I remember my first car. A 1975 Jeep Cherokee Chief. Jeep was then owned by AMC and the Indians weren’t pissed off about the “Chief” part yet. It was black. Black paint, black wheels, black windows. It had a 390 cid engine, four-wheel drive, crank up windows and no heat. I drove the piss out of that truck, mostly off the road, sometimes on, and mostly right side up. It died a painful death when I blew the engine while exceeding the legal limit a wee-bit driving by the high school during lunch leaving a swath of oil down the middle of Route 11. WooHoo. Anyway.

My next set of wheels originally belonged to my grandmother. Apparently, she no longer needed her ’77 Dodge Monaco as she couldn’t go more than twenty feet without her oxygen tank. It had a 318 cid engine, 4-barrel, crank up windows, AM radio, vinyl seats and a whole lot of go. I used this vehicle between ages seventeen and eighteen and practiced getting air off the hills on Sky High Road between LaFayette and Tully. The Dukes of Hazard was on prime-time television then.

I sold the Monaco to a boob and then bought my next car, a 1982 Plymouth Gran Fury Police Interceptor. 440, 4-barrel, cruise, tilt, power windows, cool dome light, spot light, dog dish hubcaps and black wall tires. I would drive it on the Thruway and watch everybody’s brake lights as they saw me coming. It looked exactly like an unmarked police car. It was very cool to drive that car. The transmission lost reverse one day and I put a sign on it. Sold it for more than I paid for it. Another boob, I guess. Didn’t need no stinkin’ reverse.

During the ownership period of the Interceptor, I had a brain fart and bought a Chevrolet Corsica from a guy that worked for my father. It had a 3.0L V6, a bad steering box and a leaking gas tank. It had 195,000 miles on it when I bought it for $250 and 240,000 miles when I donated it to a family friend whose daughter was in need of her first car. That car could jump a snow-bank with no problem and was easily put into a reverse 180.

Next: A 1984 Olds Cutlass Supreme with the pitiful 231 V6, all power, buckets, black with black glass. My mechanic told me to get rid of the wheezing V6 and try a small block Chevy. I said “OK”. Two months and $450 later, it had a Chevy 350 with headers. Loud and fast. I put in a Denon tape deck with an amplifier and subwoofers in the trunk. This was waaaaaay before it was “cool” to have tunes of this magnitude. Now I laugh when I see those cars with the chrome rattling off from the ear-blasting bass exuding from the trunk. I sold it.

Because I didn’t want to drive my Cutlass through the winter, I was talked into a 1983 Plymouth Reliant K Wagon. It was blue with a very strange smell. The car rode great for the initial test drive, where I didn’t exceed 40 m.p.h. After I bought it, however, the first time I got to the top of an on-ramp the front end vibrated and shook violently enough to scare the living crap out of me. I donated it to The Rescue Mission where my $900 investment became a $2400 write-off.

Needing a car that could break the 40 m.p.h. barrier, I happened upon my neighbor whose son knew a guy that knew a woman who bought a car from the estate of a lady that had died. The car, a green 1979 Ford LTD 2-door with 29,000 miles on it, was in immaculate condition. The Cleveland 351 had balls and a four-barrel carb. The Corinthian Leather (I know, Chrysler, not Ford) was like brand new and the paint actually shined, defying the car's age. This pristine condition lasted about 2 months. While celebrating St. Patrick’s Day with J.P. and my girlfriend at the time, we decided it would be cool to drive this LTD off a cliff. Actually, it was all her idea. “Let me drive, let me drive” as we left Rosie O’Grady’s. “Sure, go ahead”, I said. So, into the driver’s seat she went, with J.P. in the front passenger seat, and I in the back. She started the engine, revved way over redline, and as the RPMs were about half way down the other side, she dropped it into drive with steering wheel cranked all the way to the right. She drove the car over the railroad ties that marked the edge of the parking lot, off the cliff behind Rosie O’Grady’s, down a short ravine and slammed the car into the back wall of Monroe Muffler and Brake. The car was totaled in about the distance of eight feet. Dumb bitch. Donated as a parts car to a guy that had a black 1979 Ford LTD. I saw this boob driving the green one about a week afterward.

Next on the list is a 1985 Buick Riviera. This was a very nice car. Power everything, moon roof, charcoal gray, power trunk, self-leveling. I drove this car for three years and never had a problem with it. She was always clean and shiny and I kept her covered whenever she was parked. An Alpine CD changer with front and rear Alpine amps was added later. I never let that stupid bitch drive it either. It was an over-the-road automobile and was made for long trips. I sold it to an electrician who backed it into the path of a Centro bus on State Street one sunny Sunday afternoon. Idiot.

With the Buick gone, I needed transportation. While looking, I stopped into Sam Dell on Genesee Street to see what could be had for nothing down and payments below $250. A 1999 Jeep Cherokee Sport could be had. So, I signed up for a 36-month lease and drove off the lot in a brand-spankin’ new Jeep. It was my first brand new car, so I was anal about not letting dust, dirt and interior grime accumulate. This level of attention to detail lasted until we got a Golden Retriever puppy that promptly chewed a hole in the carpet during his first ride in the back. Traded it in.

Next was a green 2002 Dodge Durango SXT with a 4.7L V8 and four-wheel drive. I loved that truck. It looked good and I liked the color. Foz had his own spot in the way-back and until I put the tail lights of an idiot’s Ford Taurus in his trunk, he actually liked riding back there.

While looking for a replacement for the Durango a last week, I had a temporary mental lapse in thinking. I test-drove a new Durango with a Hemi, a Magnum with a Hemi, and a Ram with a Hemi. We had decided on the Durango until the talk turned to payments. It wasn’t that we couldn’t afford the payments it was just way too much for a car. I don’t know why people drive Suburbans, BMWs, Cadillac’s or Hummers with their payments exceeding $800 a month. Why? So we shelved the Durango idea. Looking out the dealership's big window, I saw about fifty mini-vans parked in a nice neat row near the far side of the lot. Then, my temporary lapse in reason kicked in and I said, “How about a Caravan?” Millisa said, “A Caravan? Really?” And I said, “Why not. Lots of room and loaded with options.” So, we drove one and before we knew it, we were signing the paperwork. I now drive a loaded 2005 Dodge Grand Caravan.

So, what the hell happened?

Michael Jackson, Not Guilty
(Not Innocent Either!)

Ten indictments. Ten acquittals. Ten facelifts. By the end of the nineties Michael Jackson was estimated to be worth 750 million dollars. I think I read that the man (sic) has over thirty number-one hits to his credit since going solo in the early eighties. The entire world has watched with amazement the young talent slowly turn into a freakish circus sideshow that could be found riding a Ferris wheel with little boys on his 270-acre hideaway. He bought Elephant Man, for crying out loud. He owns the Beatles!! How could we let ‘ol Wacko-Jacko marry the King’s daughter, for krissakes?

Here’s the scariest part, from CNBC.com: “Superstar Michael Jackson will no longer open himself up to child abuse allegations by sharing his bed with young boys, his lawyer said tonight. “He’s not going to do that any more,” Tom Mesereau told NBC. “He’s not going to make himself vulnerable to this any more.” The man with the blow-hole on his face decided that it is not a good idea to sleep with little boys anymore. He’s going to give it up. What the hell kind of asinine statement is that? You have just been vindicated of child molestation charges that could have put you in the hole for thirty years and the first thing you say to your adoring public is that you don’t think sharing a bed with minors is such a good idea. This pisses me off! At least OJ had the sense to maintain that he was innocent, even searching for the “real killer” for months after his acquittal.

Michael says he will sell Neverland and move out of the country. I think that is a great idea. Hey, Michael. Take OJ and Mr. Blake with you!

Chowder!

Yes, I'm Blogging Again

boob - n. (būb) 1. A stupid person; a dolt. 2. A person of mild mental retardation having a mental age of from 7 to 12 years and generally having communication and social skills enabling some degree of academic or vocational education.

I know way too many boobs. Come back and I will list the names of every single one of them.

Vacation Is the Best Medicine

Millisa and I got back from our two-week honeymoon on May 21. It was the first time either of us had left our jobs for such an extended period and, whether our employers agree with us or not, was a well-deserved break. Upon returning home, we both felt recharged and refreshed. We had acquired a positive new outlook on the future and that gave us incredible feelings of happiness - nothing could stop us. 36 hours later – Reality crashed landed at 6:30 Monday morning with a screaming alarm clock and the wreckage of a wonderful vacation strewn everywhere. By the end of the first day back, the refreshed and recharged feeling I had a mere day and a half earlier had mysteriously vanished, replaced by the familiar feelings of stress, frustration and the good old “screw it” attitude. Like I said, it wasn’t instantaneous. It started with the alarm clock and gradually accelerated through 10 a.m. and never let up until the ride home. In the back of my mind, I still felt good. I was, psychologically, still on the wedding/honeymoon high that had gripped us both for the better part of the month prior.

So here we are, violently jerked back to reality from a state of mind that only a vacation can generate. Meandering through the work day occasionally looking at the clock as if to confirm that it ain’t time to go home yet.

Chowder.

Cashin' in on Deep Throat (ChaChing)

June 1972. The second in command of the FBI has a little secret. No, it is not the advance knowledge of the newest Foster Grant styles for 1973. Or is it that the Middle East is about to choke the oil loving shit out of us. The anonymous man’s little secret has the potential to bring down a President and eventually did, along with all the President’s men. He tells his tales to The Washing Post’s Woodward and Bernstein who write article after article exposing the truths of a corrupt White House. For that they call him Deep Throat.

June 2005. A spokesperson and attorney for the family of a 91 year-old man living with his daughter in California, writes a story for Vanity Fair that just happens to reveal the true identity of Deep Throat as W. Mark Felt, the old man in California. Amazing!

Who cares, really? Did we care in 1972? We sure did! It was breaking news that enveloped the country for over two years and changed history forever! The Watergate Hotel would have been torn down years ago if not for this once powerful, now failing old man in California. During the early seventies he was privy to scandals and cover ups that never made it to the public eye, let alone bring down a President. So why come forward now? Why spill your guts to your lawyer that is writing a column for a make-up and fashion magazine? Those two loons from The Washington Post promised never to reveal their sources, and haven’t, as far as we know. Hell, Pat Buchanan admitted just this morning on the Today Show that he has known the identity of Deep Throat for years and never said anything. Ronald Reagan even pardoned the man in 1981 for other illegal “behind the scenes” type operations and never mentioned that this guy knew some shit. So why blow your wad 30 plus years after the fact. Is it the money? No way. Not money. Not the stuff of which dreams are made. It must be something else. No – it’s money. You see, Mr. Felt’s grandson needs to pay for college and it is up to ‘ol Deep Throat to foot the bill. Millions of dollars have been made on the portrayal of Deep Throat in articles, books and a feature film starring Paul Newman. Did poor old DT get a dime? Notta. So it makes perfect sense that he would want to cash in. That's the ONLY reason the truth is coming out now. $$$$. Now you wonder why the hell it took so long. Maybe he went broke paying off all the people who knew his true identity and now he needs the money to buy Depends. I thought Pat Buchanan had a nice suit on.

I can't wait to see Elvis again. He'll rake it in.

Chowder