Ladies and Gentlemen, assuming there are any left, the President of the United States…

Newt Gingrich?

You gotta be shitting me, right?  I have to admit I was surprised, perhaps shocked, at his bid for the Republican Presidential nomination, and I don’t know if I’m so comfortable with it, yet.  That said, I think I know quite a bit about his appeal to the Right, and an equal amount about the repugnance he stirs in the Left.

Leave us explore, hmm?

If you aren’t aware of Gingrich’s background, the Wiki article is about as good as anything at explaining who he is, his background as a legislator, some of his personal life, and all of that. 

You can see and surmise that the man is fairly conservative, and has worked pretty hard at trying to see conservative ideas and ideals expressed thru the government.  Yes, Republicans will argue amongst themselves about who amongst them is or isn’t a real conservative, and they’ll bring up all sorts of examples of why this one is or that one is not, but all that is just insider bullshit, having nothing to do with the rest of us. By that I mean, every group has it’s own divisions, but those divisions don’t lessen the over-all identity of the group.

For example, truck drivers.  We in  the driving profession, if it be one, talk amongst ourselves about who good drivers are and are not, what company training turns out good drivers, and what ones turn out poor, there is a hierarchy  amongst drivers, even.   But, to everyone not in the industry, a truck driver is a truck driver, whether they haul sulfuric acid or tomatoes.  Insider bullshit.

So it is in politics. Who is or is not a “true” conservative doesn’t matter a bit to those of us who are not conservatives.  (I’m not so sure I know how I got off on this, though I guess, as always, it doesn’t matter.  Anyway, it doesn’t matter to me. If it matters to you, bummer, dude.)

But my point is this. Lots of people do what Gingrich does and has done, try to get the government and the country to move to a considerably more “conservative” track, as opposed to a more “liberal” one.  There is nothing special about the man there.

What is special about him, and what does set him aside from almost all other politicians, certainly any of them with any power and influence, what makes him a lightening rod for hate and derision from the liberals, and embarrassment and anger from the conservatives, is his personality.  It’s strong. Very strong. He’s not a fucking pussy, he says what he thinks, he calls “bullshit” right out loud when he sees it, or thinks he does, he doesn’t tiptoe, he’s blunt and direct, and he doesn’t give a good goddamn whether you like him or what he says or thinks, or whether you don’t.¹

His personality manifests politically in a couple pretty interesting ways.

If you fancy yourself a conservative voter, that is, a Republican, then his candor and directness and lack of kowtowing is refreshing, even if you find that his proposals and platform and the like aren’t to your tastes.  Here is a politician, one with a strong, heavy political history, who has both a spine and balls.

If you’re a liberal voter, a Democrat, then you view his direct speech and lack of concern for political correctness as defects, horrors, nearly, and in your mind he is viewed as unfeeling, cold, distant, and aloof, and above all else, mean.

If you’re a politician of any variety, either Republican or Democrat, you don’t want the man any where near being successful again in politics, and certainly not as President.  In that would lie the danger that to compete with him politically, both Democrats and Republicans would have to adopt his style, to some degree or another, as it became clear that that is what the voting public was demanding and expecting…and they certainly would. 

Imagine a Congress full of politicians, liars and devious by nature, who we forced, through our approbation of one of their fellows, to be honest², forthright, blunt; that we forced to answer questions directly, and in whom we demanded to find a spine and balls, if not integrity.

Does all this mean I think Gingrich would make a good President?

No, it doesn’t, and no, I won’t be voting for him, should lightening strike and he actually become the Republican nominee.  He and I agree on much, but I can’t make that ole permanent space colony on the moon shit. What? Newt, are you fucking INSANE?

Besides, you think Obama has problems with Congress?  Let Gingrich get in there and you’re going to see all sorts of shit, and how can anyone get anything done fighting all the time?  Can’t. Wouldn’t.

But I would vote for all politicians being just like him in attitude, personality, and political style. I’m not holding my breath, mind you, but I’d vote for it.

Just not for Newt.

 

Footnotes and stuff:

1. Saying all of this doesn’t make him a Super Politician.  He’s still a liar, cheat, and a thief, falling under the general umbrella of “politician.” That’s part of the definition.
2. For a politician. See 1, above.

Letters From Shady Acres, Home for the Feeble

Dear You People,

As I sit here in the day room looking back on my life, I see a lot of mistakes and misjudgments I’ve made thru my lifetime, as we all do, and I got to cogitating, as old men will, on what I should have known then, that I know now, that may have helped me thru life, may have made life easier or better, not just for me, but for my family and friends.  Though my life has been nothing special, I have tromped this ground for nearly 64 years, now, and that is a lot of experience in living that you younger people don’t have, obviously.  So it seems to me that, though I can’t go  back in my own history and change anything, I can pass down, not wisdom, but just some shit to think about as you go about your young lives.

The problem with all that is that I got nuthin’. 

Ok, well, yeah, I do have some things I could suggest, some guidance I could give you, but you’d never believe me; you’d think I was either trying to be funny, or am just some asshole which, while true, is not related to my knowledge about life.

I don’t want to be seen as trying to tell anyone how to live their lives since, as long as you leave me alone, it’s none of my business.  Besides, everyone else in the goddamned world is already telling you what you should and shouldn’t do and believe, how you should and shouldn’t live;  religious people and Republicans have made a handsome living out of doing that, you don’t need me adding to it.

And I gotta tell you people, I flat hate it when the news people interview some old buzzard that is celebrating his 105th birthday and he gives advice on living to a ripe old age.  Shut the fuck up,  you old dick, you were just lucky, you don’t know shit.  And you’re ugly. And put your damned teeth back in, I can’t understand a fucking thing you’re saying.  Who wants any more of that, you know?

But, on the other hand, Jeny, The Littlest Lesbian, heart of my heart, if I had one, might benefit from some of my supposed wisdom, so maybe I should say a few things, offer a few pointers, not that she reads this silly shit, she doesn’t.  But, one never knows, does one?

If you’re a regular listener to this crap, first, I’m very sorry for your condition, but secondly, some of these things you will have heard before, some will be new to you, but a general review is always a good thing, from time to time, just to keep things fresh in your head.

Oh, and other than the first one, these things are in no order at all. They’re just things for you to consider as prance on down the ole road to being croaked…

Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.

This is something you people have to get firmly into your heads if you want a life that is as free from other people imposing their shit on you as you can get.  You’ll find this useful in lots of life situations, but never more so than when someone nuts up and twists off at you for something that is either stupid or none of their business, and very often both. 

Hey, you know what, Ace? Fuck you if you can’t take a joke…you see what I’m saying here.

Never let your babies learn how to walk.

If you have chirrens (that’s colored talk for “children”) you already know what I’m talking about. But if you don’t have any kids of your own, (and by that I mean kids that you have birthed or bought at a young age and have raised, not your nephew or your niece that you play with then hand back, I mean some kid you own) then right now you’re thinking that I’m some kind of asshole.  Yeah, well, you just wait. You just wait.

Listen, man,  you can’t hardly stop ‘em from learning to speak and yammering your goddamned ears off, (and even before that, they are making noise for two goddamned years. I don’t know what’s worse) but there are things you can do to slow down or stop that walking shit.  Foot binding like the Chinamen used to do? Break her ankles every year or so? I dunno, you do what works best for you and your family, but all of us parents are here to tell you that you’re making a BIG mistake if you let ‘em learn to walk. After that, your life is downhill.

Trust me.

Oh, sure, no,  you’re absolutely right, at first it is precious and cute and adorable…I mean, there’s your little punkin butt movin’ on down the road, if somewhat unsteadily at first. Never worry, in no time at all, the little twat will be driving YOUR car, burning  YOUR gas, and fucking chicks in the back of YOUR minivan, and it all begins with her learning to walk. Or him. It’s the same with hims, but worser.

Trust me on this, do what you can to keep them stationary for as long as possible.

Take reasonably decent care of your body.

No, it’s not funny, it’s not meant to be, and neither is any of the rest of this shit.

Hey, you people wanted wisdom, I’m giving you wisdom you can actually use, not some highfalutin bunch of bullshit, but tools you can actually use in your everyday lives, and you think I’d joke about that, do you? Nay, nay, I say, for even in my apparent humoresque of prose lie truth, wisdom, and sage advice, and yes, even the American Way.  Or I could be full of shit, that happens a lot, too…

Look, you people are just starting out in life, and you’re strong and all that, play sports and such; good for you.  Keep it up. Eat decently most of the time, exercise…hey, you know all the shit everyone is always harping on? Do that to the extent that is reasonable in your life. It will pay you dividends when you enter your Sunset Years, as I have. 

Let me give you people a little hint, here. Skeletons wear out. Who knew, or who gave it any personal thought? Not me.  I guess I always thought arthritis was just something you “caught” somehow…I dunno…but that ain’t the way it works, or not the osteo variety.  Those of us who have that are just wearing out from years and years of hard work, and you will, too. As I sit here, I have a hip and foot that are arthritic, shoulders, especially my right shoulder  (from all that gear shifting as well as decades of devoted beating off) the knuckles on my hands are swollen and my fingers deformed by them, to perfectly match the position they would be in on  a big truck steering wheel, and a lack of cartilage and bone spurs in my cervical vertebrae, and it’s all just from wearing out.

So what I’m saying here is that, since you people are going to wear out, too, to varying degrees, it would put money in your bank to tend your body some degree of well.

Fuck everything you can outrun.

Don’t let ANYONE try and cram that “quality is better than quantity” shit down your throats, it just ain’t true.  I tried that once, long ago, and you never fucking get laid. I mean, get me some pussy five days a week, then we’ll start talking about it’s quality. You see where I’m coming from with this? Most of the girls that are fun in bed are the easiest sluts, anyway, and those are EXACTLY the qualities I have always looked for in a girl, general sluttiness.

So I don’t know what anyone ever meant by that quality shit when it comes to chicks. I imagine it was made up by some uptight twat that don’t like suckin’ dick, and if she does lower herself to your level, she is certainly not going to get any of that ugly stuff in her mouth.

I got an idea. How about you go fuck yourself, bitch, the bars are FULL of real women.  Don’t wait up…

If YOU won’t fuck me, there are plenty of people who will.

This can be related to the caution above, to some degree as you can probably see.  Here’s the deal…

Often…no, no, not always…but often…very often, as it turns out, women look down on us men because we want pussy a lot, if not all the time.  They attempt to make us feel like we are lesser than they are, simply because our sex drive is higher than theirs might be. Then, add on top of that the day to day bullshit that often goes on in a marriage with a harping, controlling wife…you know, withholding sex as a punishment, or using it as a reward, that sort of thing…and you can see how sexual tensions can run amok.  Especially if your wife tends toward being a cunt.

I’ve been up against this upon occasion, and not just in a marriage, and I suggest you adopt this attitude…

Keep your head high. Sex is terrific, and you should get as much of it as you can handle.  Keep in mind that SHE is the one with stick up her ass, where your cock could be, not you.  She is the one with the problem, not you.

And the next time the subject comes up…you know, where you think it’s about time to relieve some man pressure and knock the bottom out of some pussy, and your wife doesn’t think she feels like it, not again this month…paraphrase my words, then go out and get laid.

Listen, bitch, if you think you’re going to hold your pussy over my head, and not be naked,  you have made a vast number of mistakes in your judgment of me. Tell you what, I’ve never had any trouble getting laid, and if you won’t fuck me, someone else will.

And we didn’t discuss it any more after that. She tried, I demurred because we had already discussed it, I understood her position and had rejected it out of hand, so what was to discuss?  You don’t wanna fuck me. I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.

See ya, I have a date.

Ok, there’s more crap, but I’m tired of typing, and someone is due by here at any moment to have me sign some paperwork.

I’m all…important and shit…

Isn’t it still possible to tell the TRUTH now and then, without having to apologize for history?

I’ll admit before I begin this screed, that I woke up a little bit pissy this morning.  I had a little incident with my woman last night, an incident with my kid last night, and another larger one with her this morning, that have set me on edge.  I have a really low tolerance for (what I consider to be) bullshit, and so when I was reading the news this morning, I was already predisposed react poorly to any stupid shit I found, and find it I did.

I would like to explain something to you Japanese, and anyone else who slept thru all their American and World History classes, about World War 2.  Let’s begin with a very brief recap of the Japanese – Allies portion of the war, shall we? Oh, I know, I know, you know all about the war, I don’t need to tell you a thing, right, Ace?  Well, it won’t take long. Indulge me.

As you Japanese know, you people began the war with us. You dragged us into it and, as unprepared as we were, we took to the fight with relish.  It was you people who bombed Pearl Harbor, and we took some offense to it. We also took offense to you taking over the Pacific, on your way to Hawaii and America. We found that distasteful and dangerous, since you seemed to enjoy killing us, and we began killing you back.  Of course, we weren’t too good at it at first, and since General McArthur was an asshole and an incompetent,  pretty soon you found yourselves owning the Philippines.

You took thousands of our soldiers and Filipino soldiers captive, then decided the Bataan Death March would be a fun way to spend some time, and  you deliberately murdered over 3,000 prisoners of war during that march. Thru bayonetting, beating, clubbing, beheading, shooting, driving over fallen soldiers, you cocksuckers marched them to death…no food, no water…YOU did that.

You people, we came to find out, were every bit as vicious, sadistic, and loathsome in your treatment of prisoners and civilians everywhere you went, as were the Nazis in their treatment of just about everyone. You Japanese were the very embodiment of evil and horror during the war. You should be ashamed, if you’re not.

And at the end of the war, when it became absolutely clear to you that you could not possibly win, you still refused to surrender, forcing us to go after your infrastructure, your manufacturing; for god’s sake, we burnt half of Japan to the fucking ground, and still, you arrogant losers, you prideful assholes, refused to surrender. 

The only thing left was to invade Japan which would entail a huge loss of life, Japanese and Allied though, really, no one gave a rusty fuck about Japanese lives. We were facing loosing astronomical numbers of troops, and that is what counted.

In different ways, thru different channels and different venues, you were asked over and over again to resign the war, and you told us to go get fucked.

Instead, WE fucked YOU. First at Hiroshima, and then at Nagasaki…and then, only then…did you sonsofbitches decide that, yeah, you guess you had better give up…UNCONDITIONALLY…as we had been suggesting all along.

You people, you self-righteous Japanese pretenders to horror, can kiss my fucking ass.  You’re goddamned right we’re celebrating the bombing of those two cities.  You’re damned right we are, and we don’t need to apologize to anyone over it, least of all YOU people.  Ok, maybe I’m the only one celebrating it openly, but everyone should be.  Too bad about all the dead people and destruction and cancer and shit. Blame your leaders.

And while you’re at it, get fucked.

Idiot Disclaimer:

Anyone who has any sort of idea in their fevered brain that the foregoing has anything at all to do with racism, is too stupid to be reading this. Please go away. Perhaps you’d like to shoot yourself in the head, and increase the global IQ just a bit.  Think it over.

I think what we should do is turn all our kids into a bunch of fucking pussies and be done with it.

We are turning our children into a bunch of goddamned pussies, unable to cope with anything the least bit uncomfortable, and we can all thank political correctness, and the stupid people who have bought into it…which means virtually the entire society.  Apparently, as we turn and twist with paroxysms of horror that some kids bully other kids in school, our knee jerk apoplexy has now spread to kids on the playground calling other kids names…like retard…as they have been doing forever.

What the hell is wrong with you people? 

This is what you think is important?  You think that kids calling themselves names is a terrible, life bending event for the poor kid that’s called “retard” or “fatass?” What? You assholes never went to school? Never had a childhood? Grew up in a fucking convent or something?  Has someone gone ahead of you, tossing rose petals when  you walk down the street all your life? Jesus Christ, you dumb fucks, how about you get your heads out of your collective asses and actually LOOK at what you’re doing?

Yeah, yeah, you think you’re big champions of the poor, downtrodden kid at school who is bullied and bullied and eventually twists off and kills a bunch of people or commits suicide. You think you’re saving the entire population of school kids from fates worse than death, right? You’re all big heroes and shit, and anyone who isn’t floored with the wind knocked out of them when some kid calls another one “ugly and fat” on the school grounds are just horrible pieces of shit who don’t care about our poor, little babies.  Right?

You know what? Not only are you people self righteous fools, you are teaching our children…your children…to be weak and to be spineless, and that’s bad enough. But you’re also teaching the general population of kids, hence the future of our society,  that the central principle of political correctness, to be offended is the worst thing possible that can happen in one’s life, should be what we all strive to weave thru the fabric of our lives and our society.

We continue to take a good idea, like stopping school bullying, and then stretch the idea so thin with “no exceptions” thinking that it ceases to be a meritorious thought, and becomes something silly and destructive.  An absolute like “No drugs in our school” is a great thing. But what it means is that there will be no party drugs tolerated in school, nor should there be. But what have the stupes twisted it around to mean? Right, your kid can’t take a Tylenol if she has a head ache, can’t take Midol if she has menstrual cramps, can’t take prescription meds without an act of Congress.  This is just stupid thinking.  Kids CAN take medications and Tums without being drug fiends, you dumb bastards. No kids drop ibuprofen to party with.  What the hell are you assholes thinking?

Well, now look at the Horror that is school bullying…echo…echo…

Should bullying anyone be tolerated in schools?  Of course not, not for a second, and not for any reason. There is no excuse for it, and there should be zero toleration for it.

The problem is, how you gonna define it?

I gave a lot of thought to posting a couple dictionary definitions of “bully” and “bullying,” but decided against it.  This is right at the epicenter of the problem with all this silly hoopla…we all know what bullying is, it doesn’t need to be defined, not if you speak English. (Just as “racist” doesn’t need to be defined, if you speak English. We know what it means.)

I decided, instead, to tell you what bullying isn’t.

It isn’t calling a kid a “retard” or “gay,” even if they are, and the likelihood is that they are neither, in the same way that calling someone a “cocksucker” isn’t meant to say he actually performs fellatio, though he might. Those are play ground pejoratives, name calling, from one kid to another because they are pissed off about something or don’t like a kid.  It’s kids being kids.

Should name calling be allowed? I dunno, how about we don’t worry and nut up and twist off over it, how would that be? How about we have the same response we’ve had for years, the one that still works just fine, a teacher telling them, “Knock that shit off, Ace.”

How about we don’t teach our kids that every bump in their world is a major catastrophe that they cannot possibly manage to live thru without some horrible bruising?

How about schools and parents getting their heads out of their asses, and growing healthy, strong kids, kids with a backbone, kids with balls enough not to faint if they hear something…gasp…offensive?  How about we teach our kids to ignore the stupid and silly approaches to life, and instead, help build them into strong adults who don’t go thru life afraid and looking for offense and insult to be aggrieved over?

How about we stop raising pussies, and start raising kids who take responsibility for themselves and their actions?  How about we raise kids that will knock another kid on his ass if he goes too far with the name calling?

How about we let kids be kids…but not stupid or weak ones?

How would that be?

Hey, you old shit, are you done with all that car crap?

No, not quite yet, but today will be the last one for a while. Why do you ask?

Listen, Ace, I’m bored with it, is why I’m asking. Who gives a shit about your damned cars, you know?

Did it ever, just once, occur to you, Ace, that you are me, and if I’m not bored, you can’t be?  How about that, smart guy? That ever fire off any of those synapses I’ve heard so much about?

Oh.

Right, so now what?

Well, I believe you were about to tell these nice people about when you were a child, and how you fell in love with foreign cars.

Oh, yes, yes I was. That’s right. Thanks. Now, shut the fuck up, how about that, Ace?

Alright.

Actually, I can’t righty remember when I began to like foreign cars, but it was  one whole lot of years ago.  (Excuse me just a moment.  What the fuck kind of sentence was that to write? What the hell is wrong with you?  How about you try that again?)

…ahem…

Actually, the origins of my affection for foreign-made automobiles is lost in the fog of my personal antiquity. Most of you old people know what I’m talking about.  The rest of you should try dragging out 50 – 55 – 60 year old memories, and let’s see how good you are at ‘em.  (I do have one freak friend with a near photographic memory, though, and yes, to answer your unasked question, she IS a pain in the ass.) I can remember, though, talking to my dad about wanting to buy a VW bus “when I grow up” and drive around Europe in it. I must only have been seven or eight. So, it’s been a long time, but you can see my level of interest back then, as evidenced by me even knowing there was such a thing as  a VW bus. VW didn’t start becoming popular here till the mid 50’s (I was seven in ‘55) and there were even fewer buses…transporters…manufactured or shipped back then. 

I began collecting Dinky Toys, and they were predominantly based foreign on prototypes, as well as Lesney and Matchbox toys, likewise foreign.

So I’ve like foreign cars forever, and somewhere along the line I began a life long love affair with MG, more specifically, the 1953 MG TD.  There are reasons I like the ‘53 over the other years, but what the hell difference does that make, and who wants to hear it? For whatever reasons, that is the model year I have craved almost my entire life. 

As odd as it might seem, and it seems very odd to me, it never occurred to me that I would ever own one. I mean, kids don’t have money and as I grew up I was focused on making a living and just having “a car,” and though I always enjoyed seeing one or seeing pictures of TD’s, ownership possibilities never popped into my head.

Then, as if by magic, six or so months ago, the idea of buying one showed up in my head.  I’m not sure how that happened, exactly, but I also don’t care, and what difference does it make? There it was. Hey, Unc, it seemed to say, you know, you could buy one of these. You’re gonna be dead before you know it, so if you’re ever going to own one, now would be the time.  Or it could have been some sort of drug flashback, but, again, so what?

There it was in plain sight for me to consider, and consider it I have.

I’m going to begin looking for just the right one some time this year, is what the consideration brought me to.  I’m no mechanic, and I’m not looking to restore anything, so I’ll be looking for something that is mechanically in great shape, looks great, that I can drive immediately.

Yes, to answer your question, it will be difficult to get into and out of one with my fucked up hip. What’s your point?

I’m getting one this year, yes I am.

Yes, yes I do have a twitter thing…account…whatever…

…as you can see from this thing sitting here.  Picture, screen shot sorta of my Twitter profile.

See?

When I first signed up for my account, I played on Twitter quite a bit for…I dunno…several months, maybe a year; not more than that, and then I got tired of fucking around with it.  I mean, to keep up with contacts and chat with them and that sort of thing, Twitter takes regular attention, and I found it became bothersome. So, as I do with anything that annoys me, I cut it loose, at least from active involvement. I still have an account somewhere that Twitterizes my posts here on The Emporium, but other than that, I’m Twitless.

But, because I do Tweet these silly things, I still get the occasional notice that someone new is following me over there in Twitterland, like this one…

…from Bam Hansson (914) who is advising me that she’s following me.  As you can see, Bam is a young and (presumably) hot 19 year old who wants to fuck me. I say “presumably,” because I can’t see her photograph very well, though  I think there may be some thighs and tits to be had…just can’t tell.

Well, if she’s young and wants to fuck me…actually, experiment…I can only return the favor by following her, right? Oh, I know she doesn’t really want to fuck me, but…you know…just…what IF? I mean, anything is possible with the grace and love of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and it’s just possible…no, not likely, but possible…that she’s planning on getting in touch with me directly, and ask to suck my dick. So, IF that were the case, and I didn’t follow her back, she might become offended, and not come over for a fuckathon after all, and that would be a shame. For one thing, I’d hurt the poor lil thing’s feelings, and for another, it’s been a long time since  fucked a 19 year old and it might be kinda hot, you know?

But, still, I was concerned about two things.

One, and the most important, by far, is that I couldn’t see her very well.  It’s nice that she wants to fuck me and all, and I would probably go thru with it even if she was a skank, but still, you like to know what you’re gonna be eating, am I right?  

Secondly, gee and whiz, how come she has no tweets and no followers?  I mean, if she’s young and hot and wants to fuck, what’s not to follow? That seemed to lend credence to the idea forming in my head that something was wrong with our love affair, and it needed further research. AH, thinks I, let’s click on the link in her following thing up there, which I did…

Oh. My. God.  Not this. I knew something was amiss, but not this, never this.  My love, a common whore, and a nasty one, at that. 

Sweet.

Well, where there is one slut, there may be many, as I’ve always said (I don’t know what you’ve always said, but this is what I’ve always said. You may always have said something else. Or nothing else, that’s a possibility, too, not that I really care.)  This might work out pretty well. I might be able to finesse this one, 19 year old nympho into pimping off some of these other folks to me. Might work out yet, is what I was thinking, but there was still that nagging doubt about Bam and how hot she might or might not be.

So, I did what anyone in my position would do, I clicked no her profile link thingy…

Oh.

Too bad, I was startin’ to chub up a bit.  Maybe next time…

More car crap

first car crap
second car crap

I believe it was when I was in my MAYBE A VOLVO! days when Jeny first mentioned it to me. She had been poking around on the internet, looking at cars, and came across a Lincoln of some new sort, and started yapping that I should get a Lincoln…

No, Jeny, I shouldn’t get a Lincoln. I’m looking for a car, not a tank, and something I can afford to drive, not something where I’d have own stock in Exxon to be able to drive it. 

Yeah, but daddy, I think you might like these…

No, Jeny, I wouldn’t. Look, I’ve been looking at Volvos, and now you think I’d be the sort that would like a Lincoln? Not hardly.

I like to keep an open mind, as you can see.  Well, hell, I had an aunt and an uncle who did nothing but buy Mercuries (if that’s the plural…it can’t be…Mercurys?  Well, whatever…) and Lincolns, and those fuckers where huge, heavy, expensive-to-run things, and I want no part of that.

And then a couple days later I thought about them again, Lincolns, that is, and took a look at their website.

Oh.

…Holy shit, those aren’t  the Lincolns I remember.  I mean, they aren’t small, but certainly not large, relatively light weight, and nicely styled…OH, and lookie here, they have a hybrid…

…and thus began my love affair with the Lincoln MKZ hybrid, which continues to this day…

It caught my eye mostly, I guess, because I expected some version of those big bull dozers they used to sell. Well, they do have the Navigator, which is about the size of the average dump truck, but not this thing.

The MKZ hybrid (and the gasbrid, too, they have one of those) is what I’d call a mid sized car, or a smaller end big sized car, but whatever one calls it, it ain’t all that big. It’s about the right size, actually.  The insides are all leather and wood, with all sorts of cool technical  electronical shit in it…but how about 41 mpg city – 36 mpg highway? How’s that sound to you?  And, yes, I’ve read every review, seen every video I can locate on these, and the specs are born out as accurate. One of the cool things about this particular hybrid, is that it is the fastest one around, in terms of running on electricity. Sucker goes 47 mph in the electric mode, or whatever it’s called, and at that speed, I can’t see how I’d ever use gas around town, or not very much.

You can go read about it at the Lincoln website, if you’ve a mind to, but unless I’m met with some big negative surprise when I go to look at them (no, I’ve never seen one, to say nothing of touching one) and assuming I can get in and out of it easily enough, I think one of these will suit me just fine. Oh, and it has a fine bumper to bumper warranty, four years “complementary” maintenance, and the drive train is guaranteed for seven years.

Plus, I don’t need some ole black guy to drive me around, I can do it myself…

Next time…The Play Car…dun dun dun dunnnnnnn…(that’s heavy music, that’s what that is)

I guess I may as well talk some more about cars, since I began it yesterday…

…with THIS POST RIGHT HERE, and I’m thinking about them, myself, because of THIS POST RIGHT HERE.  As you can see, you people aren’t the only ones who fall under my evil spell, I do, too, which seems kind of fucked if you stop to think about it for any length of time. Yet, there it is. Whatcha gonna do,  you know?  My life is open, if sordid, book.  In fact, I was once yelled at by an old friend of mine because I put everything in my blog. She may have said “…that damned blog…” but I’m not sure. That was the sense of it, though.

And she was right. Minus the invective, she was right.

I do put just about everything on The Emporium, because I’m that kinda guy, whatever that means. What it means, I think, is that I’m a private person in that I I don’t allow people to butt into my life (depending on their actual butt, of course) in any fashion whatever. My life is mine, and I guard it jealously. However, that said, I’m also very open in my 3D life, so why not be here in this life?  I can’t think of any reason not to be, either, not that I’ve actually made those considerations.  I just sort of am the way I am, and I don’t usually care why…Well, anyway, the woman was right.

So, to continue in that vein, let’s go car shopping…

Though it has been sometimes inconvenient for Jeny, us not having a car for over a year, or whatever it’s been, two years? Maybe…well…it’s been a pain for her, because she has been the one doing the outside running, groceries and whatever.  I go to physical therapy, but I walk there, if walking is what it’s called, and I have been delighted to be without a car up to now.

And to be even more frank, let me say that I was also relieved, not having a car. I retain some emotional problems, some lite insanity, from my accident, and going out of my house was one of those problems. Is one of those problems, in the process of becoming was, I guess.  If I had had a car, I would have been under much more pressure to leave the house, and I was no where near ready for either the leaving or the pressure, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to inflict that kind of stress on myself, are you nuts? So, it was nice not having a car.

But situations change, people change; insanities can be obviated by some work and some chance taking. And I’m changing, helped in very large part by my recent venture to Texas. The changes are subtle ones in attitude, so far,  but they seem to prescribe an internal antsiness that is pushing me…gently…to get out of the house and go anywhere to do nothing.

Besides…um…ahem…not for nuthin’, but…

…I’ve committed to Tina to drive down there for Valentine’s Day, and I pretty much need a car to even begin thinking about doing that. Or I could rent one, but if I’m going to leave my house again, to go to Texas again, to see that woman again,  it may as well be in my own known-comfortable veehickle, is what I’m thinking.  And it sure as shit ain’t gonna be on a plane again, I’ve had enough of that shit for a while.

And I will thank you people to keep your fucking “Aww…Valentine’s Day…innit sweet…” comments to yourselves, along with the *coughpussywhippedcough* ones.  No one needs that shit, no matter how true any of it is.  Allow me to be 17 again for a while, is that too much to ask?

Oh.

Well, fuck youse, anyway.

Knowing this day was coming sometime, and actually having bucket list plans for a series of road trips around the country, I’ve been car window shopping for a couple years. (Ok, then that must be how long it’s been that we’ve been without a car. I dunno, something like that. Time doesn’t mean all that much to me any more, so I don’t account for it vey accurately or well.)  I can’t tell you all the different cars and car types I’ve looked at, but they are many and varied.  From 1932 Model A replicas, to cars from the 50’s and 60’s, up thru about every new car you can think of or, anyway, that I could think of that I might like to own.

I ran into the same problem looking at cars as I have when I’ve looked at any major purchase to evaluate where to spend my money; at some point, it all looks and sounds alike, no matter how far apart they might be. Like, remember when component stereos were such a huge thing in the 70’s and early 80’s? …oh…well, they were, and I can remember shopping and shopping stereo stores, from the “Best Buy” sorts, to the high end single store touting only the best, Yamaha, or some such, and I remember that at some point I didn’t know what the fuck I was looking at, it all sounded alike, you know? I sort of reached that saturated point with cars, until I realized I was making a fundamental mistake in my thinking…

I was shopping for one car, I should really be shopping for two.

First and most important, I want a car to take me places, and do so comfortably. I’m not only crippled, and have sitting comfort problems, problems with ingress and egress from autos, I’m also old, and I don’t like being uncomfortable.  I’ve paid my dues driving uncomfortable shit, and I’m not going to do it any more. Plus,  I want a car that I can jump in and head to Texas, or Maine, if I’d like to, and not be overly concerned with it getting there and back, and being comfortable doing so. And it should be reasonably economical to operate. Oh, and it should last forever, or at least until I croak, some 25 odd years or so from now.

So I need that car.

And, though I don’t need this car, I want it and I’m going to have it.  I realized I wanted a play car. Something that I wouldn’t depend on, something that may not last forever, but…well…I’ve had car dreams that I’ve had forever, at least my forever, and if I don’t enjoy one of them now, when? So I’m gonna.

So that’s two cars, but the real one comes first. 

Valentine’s Day ain’t that far away.

…to be continued…

(All this car and leaving the house talk has me feeling uneasy. Still insane, as you can see, but it seems to be abating, albeit slowly.)

In the interest of honesty and forthrightness, whatever that is, let me show you how immoral I really am.

Because I don’t have any respect for political correctness, preferring not be be voluntarily stupid, because I’m an atheist, and because I don’t care what kind of sex anyone has with any one or any thing, people make the incorrect presumption that I do not embrace “normal” values, or at least not in general.  I thought I’d show you that’s just not true this morning.  Wait. I’m going to show you this morning, that that is just not true.

When I got hurt, I was about a year into  a four year contract on this van.  The reason the contract was so long, is because I was paying a high interest rate for the loan, thanks to my darling then-wife, The Heifer. Turns out that when I was on the road and away working, she wasn’t exactly paying all the bills the way they should have been, and my credit rating was nothing to be proud of. Who knew? I should have, yes, but I didn’t. Ok, so, when I bought the van, high interest rate, longer contract, bigger payments.

I get how it works, and I understand: high interest rate, high payments, or not, I went into the contract voluntarily.  My choice.  My debt.

Now I get hurt, and for a while, the money situation is fine.  Payments on the car, while high, are doable, and nothing is missed.  Then, at virtually the same time…within a day or two of each other…the engine eats itself and my income goes down $3600 a month, due to the vagaries of the wonderful and incomprehensible Workman’s Comp program.

Oh.

Well, it was grim, but it was simple.  Got to have some place to live, that’s first, gotta have electricity and water and gas for the stove and heat and all, that’s next. Got to have dog food.  After that, there was very little money left for anything. Sometimes Jeny and I didn’t eat, or we could only afford to eat off the dollar menu at Mc Donald’s (thank you, Jesus, for that!,) and often people gave us food or sent plates of food home for us (bless them, too, if there’s really a god, and thank you guys, even if there ain’t) but getting the car repaired was out of the question, as was making that high payment every month.  And I really couldn’t afford insurance for a car that was broken and sitting in my driveway.

Still, I owed them the money, and that means something to me. In my world, the moral thing to do if you contract for something, and get that something, is to pay for it. Yet, I couldn’t, not under these conditions. But, I reasoned, if I explain things to them, I’m sure we can work something out.

I called them.

I explained that I was a new cripple, that I’m working my way thru the Workman’s Comp system, that my income just took a horrible hit, that my income will go up again, it will just be a bit of time, and that I can get paperwork to prove everything I’m telling them. I told them I was willing to pay some every month, maybe $100, $150 or so, but even that was a stretch under the circumstances. Still, I own the money, I’m doing what I can do and being honest about it.

They were very understanding of my plight, but made it clear that they were not in a position to take anything less that a full payment from me, and anything like refinancing was out of the question.  I went thru it with her again, explaining very carefully that it’s not that I don’t want to pay them, that it’s not that I was saving up for a trip to the fucking Bahamas or anything, it was that I physically do not have the money to pay them. It is just that simple, and I’m trying to do what I can to make it as right as I can.

…uh huh, that’s very interesting, sir, and we sure are sorry, but you’ll need to make these payments or we’ll have to repossess the vehicle…

Supervisor, please? 
Certainly, sir, please hold…

I explained yet again, patiently, quietly, calmly, and she understood. Took notes, I think, asked questions. She said she couldn’t make the decisions, that it would have to go to a review of some sort, but she felt certain something could be worked out.  If I would just call her tomorrow, she’d have some word for me.

Great, that took a weight off my shoulders, and every pound counted, let me tell you.

The next day I called all eager and shit, only to be told that the review board regretted that there was nothing to be done. I needed to pay the full amount of the payments or they would have to come for the vehicle. (not car, not van, vee-hicle…)  I was floored, and felt the faint stirrings of anger, and discussed it with the supervisor yet again, just to make sure there was nothing she was missing. Nope, she had it all, the review people had it all, and now I could pay or they’d take the car.

I told her a little less graciously that they could take it, then, since I could not pay them. She told me they would forward “my file” to the legal department, where they will watch the account and when I miss three payments, they will come for it, but they would contact me first.  Which they did. They wanted to know what was wrong with the engine…

It’s broke.

I see, do you mean it doesn’t run?

Well, it did when we stopped driving it, but it was making a horrid racket inside the engine.  Some kinda shit’s all broke up in there.

So it might run now?

Might.

Then we would like you to drive it to the dealer to get it evaluated.

I’m not driving it anywhere, Ace.  I already told you people I’m crippled and can’t drive.  Now, if you want to send a tow truck to take it down there, wait, and bring it back to my driveway, that would be fine.

Sir, we’re trying to figure out the value of the vehicle, and we can’t do that without knowing what’s wrong with it.

Yes, I understand, but that’s your problem and not mine. No matter what’s wrong with it, and no matter how you value it, I can’t pay for it. So if you want it, come get it, and stop bothering me.

…which they eventually did, about two weeks after I failed to make the third payment in a row.  Good, that’s over and done with.  I didn’t like it, really, but it was a relief just having it decided. And, of course, I knew I’d be hearing from them again, which I did.

They sent me a very nice letter, telling me that I still owed them $7500 give or take, and I could send a check or do it online, as I had my payments, at my choice.

I see.

I threw the letter away.

Then came a phone call after the second letter went unanswered, where a very nice woman explained to me very carefully that I still owe this much money, and they would be happy to make some payment arrangement to suit my budget, all I had to do was tell them what that would be. We can work it out.

Well, no, actually we can’t work it out, lady.  I’m not giving you a fucking cent, not now or any other time.

She seemed to bristle at that, which just set off the explosion that I’d been brewing up with these people. I’m afraid I may have even raised my voice just a bit, something I don’t often do, when I explained to her that I had nearly begged to be able to pay for the van, never mind that it was badly broken and would cost me money to repair, it was my obligation, and I wanted to fulfill it…and now, after you’ve come and dragged it off, fixed it, sold it, now you’re coming to me to pay the balance on something I don’t have…that I begged you to let me keep…and we can work it out?

I have this right, don’t I? She allowed as how I did…

How about this…

How about I’ve done my due diligence, and in the wonderful state of California, by specific statute, none of my income…not one red cent, assuming cents were red and that I actually got any…NONE of it are you able to attach. $0.00. ZERO. So…how about this agreement? How about you people go fuck yourselves, how would the be, Ace?

Yes, I own them the money.
No, I will never pay them.
Yes, it reflects poorly on my credit rating, and I couldn’t care less.

I’m a hypocrite, apparently, but I’ll learn to live with it. 

Fuck ‘em.

Let’s turn this around and see how it sounds, shall we?

Down in South Carolina, some place named, Laurens, some old KKKer owns a store called The Redneck Shop.  He sells the sort of thing you’d suppose he does, Confederate flags, KKK outfits…all that anti-nigger stuff they are so fond of down there.  This isn’t a new store, it’s been there for years, and there’s never been any big deal made about it. Seems like the only people who show much interest are tourists. It’s no big deal, apparently.

Or it hasn’t been up till now, when a tracing of the records shows that The Redneck Shop is renting space from a building owned by some black Baptist church,  the New Beginning Missionary Baptist Church, and they, or it, are, or is, trying to shut the man’s business down.  As it turns out, they can’t, the man that the white guy originally rented from, gave him the right to rent the store space as long as he wanted to. 

The Negroes are fucked till he retires or dies, having to suffer what they consider to be disrespect and hate in their midst until then.  Adding insult to that injury, of course, is the fact that they own the building this old fuck is spreading his hate from. I get it.  I’d be pissed, too, likely, were I in the church’s position.

But now let’s turn it around and see how it sounds…

Suppose some 60 year old black man owned a Martin Luther King Stuff store, and the local chapter of the KKK owned the building he was in, and was trying to run him out of business. If they couldn’t, that group of people would also have to put up with disrespect and things they hate being forced down their throats on their own property.

What is the difference?

One is as wrong and as hateful as the other, as near as I can tell.  This may come as a big surprise to many of you people, but being black only means you’re black, it doesn’t give you any special ranking to shit on people, just because you’re offended, any more than the white guy is allowed to shit on people he doesn’t like.

Now, stop your fucking whining. It’s way past annoying. Oh, and…

Welcome to equality, you people.

The Tina and Unc Show, Part Two, is brought to you today by…

Preparation H…when just any old lube won’t do…

And now, back to our show. When last we left our intrepid cripple, he was in San Antonio, stranded at a bus stop…

…looking across the street, trying to find Tina’s pickup in a sea of parked and creeping cars; the fucking place was full.  AH, a big, red pickup, with some woman waving at me…that’s gotta be her…WAVE, WAVE…out jumps Tina’s boy, The Shortman, to come and save me…or beat me up, if I’m wrong and it’s not them.  Still, the kid’s white, so the beating danger is probably low.

Nope, it’s them. 

Tina drives off to try and find a place to park, and Sm and I, after the bro embrace, head off slowly to find and hook up with The Woman, which we finally do, after trekking down this long fucking path to where the hill it’s on rolls off gently enough so that I can navigate a little terrestrial footing and not fall on my clumsy ass, (it’s bad enough being a cripple, much worse to be a clumsy one) and wasn’t that an unnecessarily long sentence?

(cue the romantical music, Gino)

Kissing her like kissing was invented just for us, and holding her hand, the first words out of my mouth to her was, (I’m paraphrasing, but she has them etched in brass somewhere) “God, your hands are rough.”  I know, I know…but I didn’t mean anything untoward or critical by it. I just meant that the poor thing had done so much hard work over the years that her hands are…well…not soft like they should be…no, that’s not good, either, is it? Well, I just mean that I wish I had been able to make her life easier so that she didn’t have to have hard and rough…no…no never mind. 

Still, I loved holding her hand, hands, I guess, either one of them, even if she kept remarking about how soft mine are.  Being an invalid isn’t enough for her, no, no, she has to strike at what’s left of my manhood by commenting on my gay hands…

Somehow, I found myself at the wheel of her truck. (Ok, let’s get this out of the way now, and be done with the discussion.)

This is a truck…                                                         This is a pickup…

 

There are certain similarities, of course. Both of them are dirty, as you can see, and both of them have axles, wheels, and tires, as you can also see.  What else do  you notice about the axles? Yes, that’s correct, a truck has five axles, whilst a pickup has two.  There are other differences, of course, in engine size and power, gearing and a lot of other things, but the axle difference is one good way to tell a pickup from a truck.  Don’t bother to discuss any of this with Tina. I already have, and I’m scoffed at. I still have some work to do with her, as  you can see.  But, to keep her happy, and because “truck” is easier to type than “pickup,” I’m gonna use “truck” when referring to Tina’s pickup, but it ain’t.

So, in San Antonio I find myself behind the wheel of her pickup. Turns out that it seems pretty big to her, and it is for a pickup, and she gets nervous driving it in heavy traffic.  Ok, well, never mind the fact that I’ve not driven for most of four years, I handled the little thing with an élan and skill heretofore unknown in south Texas, and before anyone knew it, we were back home in good ole Alice, Texas.

This is where things get weird for me…

As the evening got later and later, I lost more and more connection to what was going on around me. I couldn’t think, I could barely find words to speak, I was actually having difficulty understanding what was being said to me.  I have very hazy memories about that evening, though it was New Years Eve and we went to her mom’s for a bit, there were people there…

I dunno.

Over the next three or four days, I was in a mental coma, as near as I can tell, and a near physical one. This is going to sound histrionic, but it’s absolutely true. In my 63 plus years, I have never felt so weak and so exhausted. Never, and I’ve done some main line exhaustion, let me tell  you. But never have I felt like this. I could have slept around the clock, I think, though I tried to limit myself to 15 or 16 hours a day…LOL God, can you imagine?  I’ve never felt more drained, less of a human being as I did for those first four days.

I’ve talked with people about this, of course, to get their opinion as to what the fuck went on with me, and their comments span all the things you’d think they would.  Jet lag? Is that a problem with a three hour flight?  It was suggested several times, but I don’t buy it. I think it was a combination of things, primarily me not having been out of the house virtually at all for four years, then slamming right into the world in one fell swoop.  Yes, I have physical problems which tire me out, no question, but I also have some level of lunacy going on within me, as regards getting out of the house and mixing with normal people again, and I think both those things knocked me flat as a fucking pancake. (Hotcake, if you prefer.)

I can’t tell  you how this shocked and embarrassed me.  I was absolutely flabbergasted by it, never expecting anything even remotely like this would happen. Sure, I figured I’d be tired, but I wasn’t tired, I was morbidly exhausted, if there is such a thing.  So much for me being ready to conquer the world, eh?  Alright, well, live and learn and all that shit.

That aside, I had an absolutely wonderful time.  This is my blog and not Tina’s, so I’m not going to speak for her, but she had an absolutely wonderful time, too. 

Meeting her in 3D, touching her, speaking to her instead of typing to her (though we did some of that from room to room, as well) was so much more than I anticipated and, trust me, I anticipated a lot.  She is exactly as she seemed on the internet, in our (rare) phone conversations, and in our texting and IMing each other over the past years.  There were no surprises…except…in real life she is so much more Tina than when we aren’t in the same room together. She pretty much takes my metaphoric breath away, assuming you’ll allow that, and how could you deny me?

She seemed to like me, too.

I will confess that I was somewhat concerned about what her family would think of me. They are a big flock of Christians and…well, you know.  I’d met Tina’s kids, and have been chatting with them now and then, and they already liked me, so I didn’t think they were going to be much of a problem.  But, her mom and sister and the rest of the several hundred (it seems) relatives she has flocking around down there, that was a worry, particularly so with my foul mouth.  But, even that went well. I only fucked up a couple times, and I seem to remember apologizing for one of them…not sure, really…whatever, I done surprisingly good not talking like a goddamned truck driver. 

Plus, I seem to have pulled the proverbial wool over everyone’s eyes, since they all seemed to like me quite a bit.  Oh, sure, sure, they’ll find out what an asshole I really am some day, but by that time it will be too late…um…for some clever reason that I can’t dream up right now, for some other reason, and likely not a very clever one, at that.

And check this out.  Tina’s kids not only like me, they adopted me before I left to come back home.  Whoever would have thought that would happen?  That’s a pretty good thing, though, since, if all goes as we are planning, they and Tina will be moving up here this summer some time.

Going back home…sigh…

…it was, I’m not ashamed to say, a very difficult and emotional thing, leaving down there. (Ok, not “down there.” I thought the part of Texas I saw sucked the big one. Flat and ugly.  I meant leaving Tina, who is neither flat nor ugly.)(Though she did suck the big one.)  Tina and her son and nephew drove me to the airport. Well, no, actually, I drove and they rode along, but you take my meaning.  I’d given Tina orders that no one would be going in with me, that would just be agony. She would drop me at the Departures place, and she would drive off, and that is what happened, amid fierce hugging and kissing and the silent breaking of an old man’s heart…

I don’t know about Tina, but I did really well until I got my boarding pass, was thru security, and at my gate…where I had a long wait.  Then I turned into the pussy that I really am, and actually cried. Now, I’m a crier…reading a book, watching a film, music, sometimes…but I take some crazy meds to keep me from running naked thru the night with a rifle, looking for a rooftop, and they do not allow me to shed tears at all. The most I can manage is a misting of the eyes, with that ache in the chest one gets.  But no tears.  Yeah, well, I didn’t sit there sobbing, but I was certainly weeping real tears on my ancient cheeks; a pussy among men, and proud to be so. 

I’d forgotten how sweet it feels to be heartbroken over someone you love.

Well, now I’m back home (and, no, I did not have that same exhaustion when I got here, though I was very, very tired.  I dunno, beats me) figuring out what’s next.

I can tell you what’s not next. I’m not going to fly anywhere next, and not until I am forced to, at that.

What I am going to do, though, is drive down to good ole ugly Alice, Texas, Molly along to protect me from muslims, should we encounter any, for Valentine’s Day with m’girl. C’mon, tell me showing up with a gift and flowers on Valentine’s Day won’t score me some major points.

Might even get laid…

Trip Report: Alice, Texas.

Takesus, is the correct pronunciation, me thinks, but that may be a trifle and not worth dealing with. Still, I like to mention these things and show you that I can communicate with the locals on their level.  That’s a gift of mine, being able to get along with people and such. I’m an ole smoothie. Should have gone into the Diplomatic Service, but I guess it’s too late, now, not that I was a diplomat in Texas. 

What I was was inspected, but I’ll get to that.

When last me met, I was getting ready to hop on a plane, which I did.   This is the rest of the story…

(Hey, who else do you know that shows pictures of Paul Harvey on their blog any more? Only old fucks, I suppose…)

My plane left Sacramento at 6:20 a.m. or thereabouts, and Delta wanted us at the airport 90 minutes ahead of time.  Sacramento is an hour and a quarter from here, or the airport is, so that translated to us leaving about three or so, which we did.  Unfortunately, though I went to bed about 6:30 in the evening, I didn’t sleep worth a shit, what with nerves and whatnot. I was up by one, ready to scram outta here by 1:30, and so waited around, somewhat nervously, since I don’t own a car any more, and one of Jeny’s friends, the delectable, Vanessa, was coming over to pick us up and take me to the airport, and she is often late. Not this time, she was early and we left early, depositing me at the Sacramento International airport at about four in the morning. 

Here is a clever graphic to show you some stuff.

No, it doesn’t show you very much stuff, that’s true, but I like maps and I like farting around with them, so this was a good excuse to load one in.

Ok, well, anyway, I got to the airport early, was already checked in, but got my boarding passes, and gimped off to get felt up in the security line. That didn’t happen, but they did get to scan my old ass and see my junk and shit.  I was going to ask for a copy of the picture, but figured I could get it off the internet later on, and save a few bucks.

Now, at the insistence of a couple (very good) friends, I had booked wheelchair assistance for all legs of my trip, but it was early, the Delta folks didn’t get in until 4:30  I didn’t want to wait for them, and I had plenty of time to walk and rest and, actually, this concourse isn’t all that big. I moseyed on down it, pulling one of those wheeled suitcases till I found  a Starbuck’s open, and sat and stared at a cup of coffee that I didn’t drink. I was nervous.

But eventually I did get  on the plane…first, I might add. We cripples are as good as infants, in that we get to stake out our claim without getting run down by the ruminating hordes behind us…had a cup of coffee, and dozed out.

In Salt Lake City, I was met in the jet way with a wheelchair, and a slave to push me around in it, right outside the plane. Can’t beat that. It’s a good thing he was there, too, since I would NEVER have been able to walk the very long distance, even if I had known the way, to my next gate. Holy shit, I didn’t realize Salt Lake’s airport was that big. But, I suppose, what with the Mormons importing wives, they need a pretty big one. Well, need or not, they have it, and I’m thankful for the dumbass that drove me thru it, rather expertly finding cracks in the crowds that he could exploit, if not too delicately, as I offered to bring my cane into play to help clear a path, should he need it. he demurred.

It was on the flight from Salt Lake to San Antonio that I began to get a hint that all was not good, that I was a lot more of a cripple than I thought I was. For one thing, this was a regional jet, though I don’t know one from another. It looked like this, whatever this is.

Let me simply say that these suckers are quite a bit smaller than a main line aircraft, or however one refers to them bigguns, and magnitudes less comfortable in the seating department. For those of us who have  been sitting for years, this is like someone beating us in the ass with a baseball bat. It was impossible to get even the least bit comfortable, with that “sore tailbone” feeling one can get in your ass after sitting a long time, in my case, four years.  I was miserable. Look, it’s only a little over two hours, but it felt like it was never going to stop hurting. Like fucking Rosie O'Donnell must seem…never ending and horrible.

But, ok, I made it, and just a bit early, to boot.  To boot? I wonder where that came from. Talk amongst yourselves whilst I do some little bit of research…

Here we go…

Middle English boten, to be of help, from Old English btian, from bt, help; see bhad- in Indo-European roots

Hey, that was real helpful. Oh, well, good thing you people don’t have to pay by the word for this silly shit, you’d have just been screwed.

Well, sir, moving right along…

So, the original idea was for Tina to pick me up at the airport, but then I got to thinking about it, some, and decided I’d take a local bus to a nearby mall, and she could just pick me up there. It was only a mile or so away, and then she wouldn’t have to drive that big assed Texas  pickup of hers into the airport.

Sweet and considerate, am I not? Well, actually, as it turns out, not so much. In my own defense, however, my heart was in the right place. (And so is hers, in case you were wondering.)

What you’re looking at, here, is the North Star Mall, just a mile or two from the airport.  See that big empty dirt spot in the corner right next to the parking stretching up to the road? This photo is a bit old, so it’s still being built, but that is the regional transit center, where all the buses come and go. The plan was for me to get off the bus there, and busty could just pick me up easy as shit, without having to get into that airport traffic.

Nice idea, that, except that when I actually got there, there was no auto access at all. Strictly buses allowed in there.  And there was no parking lot for cars at all near the place. And there was a very busy street between the transit center and the mall, and it was down a very steep hill with no path on it, anyway. The only access to the mall, was WAY down a path at the far side of the transit center, then way down the hill it’s built on to a crosswalk, and then across the street to the mall.  All of which would be a long annoying walk if I were a regular person, but took on gargantuan proportions considering how little I can walk. Being really fucked up is annoying, yes.

Not that it mattered so much, though, because the mall was bursting at the seams, and Tina couldn’t fine anywhere to park.  Being a modern man, I had called her on my fancy new phone from the transit mall while I was taking a quick dump, and I could hear the frustration in her voice.  In addition to being modern, I’m also quite chivalrous, so I told her to just find any place to park where she could see the transit place, and I’d find her…(no matter how long it would take me to gimp my ass down that fucking path.)

That didn’t work either, as you’ll find out in our next episode…