The Old Fart's Page

Uno more timeo

2011-08-06T14:13:00.000-07:00

I really hate to keep beating a dead horse, but

YESTERDAY WAS THREE FUCKING YEARS SMOKE-FREE!!!

Later,

obi

My vote for 2012

2011-06-19T09:39:00.000-07:00

Later,

obi

R.I.P. Big Man

2011-06-19T08:36:00.000-07:00

Clarence Clemmons, saxaphone player extrordinaire for Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band, passed away yesterday in Florida after suffering a stroke a week ago.

The world has lost a phenomenal musician and the E Streeters have lost a vital piece of their sound.

It's a sad day in Asbury Park, N.J.

Later,

obi

USPS = Junk

2010-09-28T10:18:00.000-07:00

I understand that our postal service is going bankrupt...it hasn’t made money or even broken even in years, and it’s just getting worse. What with email, UPS and FedEx who needs the USPS?

Junk mailers...that’s who. We can delete our spam without opening it, but we have to at least look at all the damned junk mail that hits our mailboxes.

What set me off this time?

I made two trips to the top of our driveway today to get the mail - on the first trip it hadn’t been delivered yet. When I finally got up there again, I understood why the mailman was running late.

The contents of my mailbox – in its entirety – was:

A Medicare supplement brochure
A discount book catalog
A political ad
The strategic planning report for a local retirement community
A bogo ad for a local eatery
And two thick mega ad folders containing everything from haircut ads to pizza ads plus rent-to-own flyers and WalMart brochures.

No wonder the USPS can’t make money. These guys mail all this crap for next to nothing, while the cost of 1st class postage continues to increase several times a year. I hate to give away how really old I am, but when I was in high school a 1st class stamp was .03 cents and a post card mailed for a penny.

Why, if we an have a “no-call” list fort telephone solicitors, can’t we have a “no-mail” list for all the 3rd class postal deliveries that waste trees and pollute the landfills?

Later,

obi

Second Lieutenant Van T. Barfoot

2010-08-27T08:45:00.000-07:00

This is a real medal of honor recipient:

This 1944 Medal of Honor citation, listed with the National Medal of Honor Society, is for Second Lieutenant Van T. Barfoot, 157th Infantry, 45th Infantry:

"For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life above and beyond the call of duty on 23 May 1944, near Carano , Italy . With his platoon heavily engaged during an assault against forces well entrenched on commanding ground, 2d Lt. Barfoot moved off alone upon the enemy left flank. He crawled to the proximity of 1 machine gun nest and made a direct hit on it with a hand grenade, killing 2 and wounding 3 Germans. He continued along the German defense line to another machine gun emplacement, and with his tommy gun killed 2 and captured 3 soldiers. Members of another enemy machine gun crew then abandoned their position and gave themselves up to Sgt. Barfoot. Leaving the prisoners for his support squad to pick up, he proceeded to mop up positions in the immediate area, capturing more prisoners and bringing his total count to17. Later that day, after he had reorganized his men and consolidated the newly captured ground, the enemy launched a fierce armored counterattack directly at his platoon positions. Securing a bazooka, Sgt. Barfoot took up an exposed position directly in front of 3 advancing Mark VI tanks. From a distance of 75yards his first shot destroyed the track of the leading tank, effectively disabling it,while the other 2 changed direction toward the flank. As the crew of the disabled tank dismounted, Sgt. Barfoot killed 3 of them with his tommy gun. He continued onward into enemy terrain and destroyed a recently abandoned German field piece with a demolition charge placed in the breech. While returning to his platoon position, Sgt. Barfoot, though greatly fatigued by his Herculean efforts,assisted 2 of his seriously wounded men 1,700 yards to a position of safety.Sgt. Barfoot's extraordinary heroism, demonstration of magnificent valor, and aggressive determination in the face of point blank fire are a perpetual inspiration to his fellow soldiers."

Fuck you Xavier Alverez!

Later,

obi

50 Years Slides Away

2010-08-23T08:37:00.000-07:00

The 50th reunion of my high school graduating class was this past July. I didn’t attend, but I did send them $20 for the booklet containing a list of all the graduates, where they live and what they do for a living. Most of them are retired of course, but some of the self-employed ones are still dabbling at their real estate or accounting businesses.

One very striking fact is that since the last reunion five years ago, another 20 have passed away. In the 45 years before that, we had only lost 42. Hell of a jump.

I also got the group photo. Luckily they included a row-by-row listing of who was who. I only recognized two of them without the list. One because I’ve seen a recent picture of him and one because he hasn’t changed in 50 years.

But the thing that struck me more than any other – God…they’re all so fucking old.

Later,

obi

Yeah....I'm Pissed

2010-08-22T10:31:00.000-07:00

I am one pissed off American right now. Yeah…I’m pissed off about illegal immigration; I’m a little less pissed off now that we’re finally pulling out of the war that never should have been (Iraq); but what I’m really REALLY pissed off about was on the NBC Evening News the other night, and also in the New York Times last week.

The Stolen Valor Act has been declared unconstitutional by the US Court of Appeals for the 9th Circuit in guess where? San Francisco, California. It was enacted in 2006 and made it a crime to lie about having received a military medal or service badge.

I’m all for free speech…I wanna say what I want where I want and to whomever I want. That includes telling the three-judge panel that declared the law unconstitutional, they are a bunch of dumb-ass motherfuckers!

Xavier Alverez has at various times claimed to be an ex-marine (not true); to have played hockey for the Detroit Red Wings (a lie); to have rescued the American ambassador during the Iranian hostage crisis (a complete fabrication); and to have received the Medal of Honor, the highest award that can be given to military personnel (the big ‘un.)

The judges claimed that his freedom of speech would be hampered if he wasn't allowed to say that he won the medal.

Lie about getting the Purple Heart? No problem…the government hands them out like candy. Lie about serving in Nam? No biggie…If everyone who said they were in Nam actually was, maybe we would have kicked some ass over there instead of leaving with our tails between our legs. But to say you have been awarded the Medal of Honor?

There aren’t that many of them still alive. In fact, the network news anchors report whenever one of them dies…that’s how important to our history these guys are. and what they did to get that medal was normally some off-the-wall heroic shit.

Alverez needs to have someone give him, at the least, a swift kick in the balls.

If he actually has any, that is.

Later

obi

Year # 2

2010-08-05T05:09:00.000-07:00

Happy Anniversary to me – Happy Anniversary to me – Happy Anniversary to me...eee –

Happy Anniversary to me...and many more.

Haven’t sucked on a cigarette in two…count ‘em two whole years.

Later,

obi

CSI

2010-08-02T12:23:00.000-07:00

Like I said a few weeks ago, I'm not much of a daytime TV watcher. My wife, on the
other hand, has the tube on all morning while she plays on the computer.

Normally, while I have my usual late breakfast, a program called "CSI Miami" is
blaring in the background. I usually don't pay much attention to it because I think
it sucks. The acting is terrible and the female cops are all too attractive - not that that's a bad thing - but check out your typical female law enforcement personnel sometime. No comparison. And, if they have boobs at all, they're covered up, not like the bimbos on CSI who walk around with them hanging out - again, not that it's a bad thing.

A few days ago my least favorite character on that program, Horatio, was rolling "Code 3" down a Miami boulevard in his Hummer. Full out lights and siren Just when I looked up at the TV screen, he was passed by a station wagon.

See what I mean?

Later,

obi

Rednecks

2010-07-24T10:00:00.000-07:00

I wanna start this out by saying that I can use the "R" word - I've lived in the south for 35 years. I'll never be a southerner, I wasn't born here, but my daughter was so that helps.

But I digress.

I can use the "R" word in much the same way that blacks can use the "N" word. We're fucking entitled - so there.

Anywaaaay....I've been pet/house sitting this week while my daughter and her husband are on vacation, and I've enjoyed every minute of it. As long as I stayed in the house. My baby girl lives just outside Atlanta and it's been in the high 90's every day this week with the heat indices over 100. BRU-tal.

Needless to say, I have not ventured out too often or for too long a period of time. No washing the truck or playing catch with the dog. Mostly sitting inside reading, playing on the computer or watching TV.

I'm normally not much of a daytime TV person - sometimes one of the Judge shows - but that's about it. Well, I got me an edjucashun this week, and I've made a very serious discovery.

I'm gonna share it with you now so get ready - fasten your seatbelts - batten down the hatches.

If it wasn't for rednecks and trailer trash we wouldn't have all those "redneck engineering" emails; the "people of WalMart" pictures wouldn't exist; Maury Pouvich and Jerry Springer would be out of work.

End of the day's enlightenment, grasshopper.

Later,

obi

Remember me?

2010-07-08T10:03:00.000-07:00

Damn….it’s been almost a year since I posted anything. Time flies….I guess.

In the “what’s new” department I’m still not smoking – it’s been 23 months! And

my youngest son (middle child) completed the family trifecta and got married in June in Durango, CO. My daughter (his half-sister) attended and sent me photos. My ex-wife (his mother) sent photos. My ex-sister-in-law (his aunt) sent me photos. His brother (my oldest child) sent me photos. Even though I wasn’t invited (discouraged from attending, in fact) the photographs almost made me feel like I was there. I assumed that my ex-wife had influenced the non-invite and negative response when I asked my son if I would be welcome. Once again, I was wrong. My ex asked my daughter why I wasn’t there. I have since corresponded with her (the first time in about 25 years) and found out that she was never asked her opinion on the subject - it was my son’s decision. That hurt a lot more than if she had influenced the final outcome.

Enough of this semi-negative shit! Let’s get on with the fun stuff.

I received a letter last month inviting me to serve as a jury-person on July 7^th in the year of our Lord, 2010. Of coursed I accepted the invitation and asked if I could bring any snacks. “Don’t be a wise ass,” I was told. “Just be here at 9 am, sit down and shut the fuck up!”

I arrived at the county courthouse at 8:15, having over-compensated for the traffic into our megalopolis. Coffee and water were provided, and a soda machine was available on-premise. My stomach, however, was alerting my brain that it thought my throat had been cut since no solid food had yet been forthcoming. Coffee apparently was not going to suffice.

Once all the prospective jurors had arrived, we were shown a short film outlining how the court system functioned and what would be required of us should we be selected for a jury. Then we waited.

I read for a while, then started scanning my fellow jurors.

The guy sitting in front of me, one chair over to the left, had to be an off-duty cop…I hope. When he crossed his legs and his pants cuff rode up a little, I could definitely see an ankle holster. That meant he was either a cop or one of those really, REALLY upset family members who kill the trial’s defendant because they had messed with the juror’s daughter. I was getting ready to report him to the court clerk when I saw he was reading a “cop” magazine on guns, ammo and taking prisoners safely.

Directly in front of me was a thirty-something male of East Indian heritage. Dark hair, dark skin, a nice gray suit and…….a page-boy looking collar on backwards and held together by a large, gold stick-pin. I was trying to figure out if maybe the whole collar arrangement was actually holding his head on when he turned around. I assume he was some sort of priest because he was wearing a sort of silk shirt with no real collar, just the white thing I had seen before.

Alan Harper from “2 ½ Men” was there too. Actually he was just “super” prepared for a lengthy stay. He had his laptop, earphones, cell phone and his lunch (in TupperWare containers.) A plaid, short-sleeved and button-down shirt completed the “Alan” look.

We also had a flagrant dyke (they seem to be in fashion here), multiple retirees (we have the time), one man who had a perpetual smile on his face (I’m assuming it was simply a nerd smile and not a plastic surgery error), and one guy who Judge Judy would have had a field-day with.

I was concerned about wearing jeans to court, so I wore chinos. This “dude” had on cut-off jean shorts, flip-flops and a gray T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Judy would have reamed him a new asshole right before she cited him for contempt.

At about 11:30, the clerk turned off the flat-screen 40+ inch HDTV, and informed us that the civil trial that we were supposed to hear had been settled without our assistance and the only other trial on the day’s docket was a non-jury affair. We were free to go…see you in a minimum of two years.

I feel like I accomplished something…my civic duty has been done. Even though I didn’t do anything but read and people watch. Good deal!

Later,

obi

Free at Last - Free at Last

2009-08-12T13:56:00.000-07:00

I’ve been paying off medical bills for 5 ½ years – each and every month.

It all started with my unscheduled flight on the relatively unknown carrier, Plywood Airlines, on November 28, 2003.

The ambulance ride, the x-rays, the surgery that night, the hospital stay, the second surgery in December and the 3^rd surgery in February ’04, plus all the miscellaneous add-ons (physical therapies, braces, and all the charges inherent to surgical procedures) came to over $25,000.

Admittedly, the hospital did write off a good portion of their charges after my shitty insurance company had paid their pittance. I also explained to them that since my company had laid me off due to the injury, I had absolutely NO income. I guess they felt sorry for me.

So, everybody got what I could pay them every month. The payments were small, but I never missed a month.

Then in April of ’06 I had another short flight, this one on the regional carrier, Ladder Airlines. It was only about 10 feet or so, but it did manage to break my cheekbone and my wrist, plus it shattered the sinus on the right side of my face. This is what I looked like the following day.

More fucking medical bills, but not nearly as much. Only about $1100 that time, but it still felt like I was taking one step forward and two steps back.

But as of today, August 12th in the year of our Lord, 2009, it’s all fucking over. By writing a check for $67, I have freed myself from the medical community (at least for now). All bills paid ~ thank God they didn’t charge me interest.

Later,

obi

Smoking

2009-08-05T19:41:00.000-07:00

OK. It has now been one FUCKING year without tobacco of any kind.

It's been a bitch ~ I still think about picking up a cigarette every God damned day!

But I don't do it.

How long will it be until I forget that I smoked those fucking things for over 50 years?

Later,

obi

2009-02-05T13:09:00.000-08:00

It's my 6 month anniversary today, so I thought I'd offer a link to Quitnet, a site that offers support to those of us who wish to ditch cigarettes.

Oh, yeah ~ and WAY TO GO STEELERS!!!! One for the other thumb.

Later,

obi

Phil and Tina

2009-01-13T12:44:00.000-08:00

Anyone who reads this blog with any regularity at all knows that my dog’s name is Tina ~ Tina Turner. She was given that moniker by my wife (who is a huge Tina Turner fan) because we had seen the original Tina T. in concert not long before we got the dog.

That and the fact that both Tina’s have about the same color hair.

Regular readers also know that I walk, or drag, our Tina twice a day – every day.

On Christmas afternoon we were taking our second drag of the day down Hemlock Street. One of our neighbors was hosting a family gathering and several people who I didn’t recognize had come outside to have a smoke.

“Oh, what a pretty puppy,” a young woman said. What’s her name?”

“Tina,” I replied. “Tina Turner.”

The young woman’s jaw dropped almost down to the asphalt.

Pointing at her male companion she said, “Oh my God! His dog is named Phil Collins!”

I think we need to get them together for a duet.

Later,

obi

Update

2008-10-27T13:01:00.000-07:00

Just thought you might like to know:

Time Smoke-Free: 83 days, 3 hours, 57 minutes and 17 seconds

Cigarettes NOT smoked: 2495

Lifetime Saved: 19 days, 1 hour

Money Saved: $435.75

Later,

obi

Two months

2008-10-05T10:36:00.000-07:00

8 weeks smoke free!!!!

8

8

8

8

Later,

obi

This Was The Week That Was (TW3)

2008-10-04T15:36:00.000-07:00

So, Monday afternoon our water goes off. I know, they’re working on the water and sewer lines in the neighborhood, but still – I did get that letter from the water department last week saying our payment was late.

I knew the bill had been paid, so I went online and checked out my bank statement. Sure enough, the check for my water bill had cleared. So I called the water department to bitch.

“I’m sorry, sir, but your last payment was recorded in July, not September.”

“But I have the check I mailed to you clearing my bank last week. Lemme bring up the check image. Oh, SHIT. You’re right. You never got that check. Looks like it was stolen.”

I began exploring my online bank statement in depth. To date I’ve found three stolen checks, all of which were put in my mailbox for pickup on the same day. The total amount of money lost was a little over $300.

What I can’t understand is this: all three checks still had the original payee listed on the “Pay to the order of” line. The dip shits who stole them simply wrote over that and put in the name of our local supermarket chain. YOU CAN STILL SEE THE NAME OF THE ORIGINAL PAYEE! And the dildos at the supermarkets cashed them.

So anyway, my water, car insurance and cable bills are all late. No big problems, but it’s just a royal pain in the ass. Had to call the bank’s main office, go to the Sheriff’s Department, get an incident report, take that to my local bank branch and, of course call all the companies affected. The cable and insurance companies just doubled up my bills for this month, but I need to take a check into Asheville so they don’t cut off my water.

The bank says I’ll get my money back, but it may take up to 90 days.

I almost forgot: Monday morning there was a note taped to my front gate from Animal Control. A neighbor had complained that my dog was running loose in the streets. That’s my 9 year-old, overweight BLIND dog, that never leaves the house except for the daily drags up and down the street. We call them exercise walks and I administer them twice daily.
So, this has been one of the strangest weeks in recent memory. Since all this shit is now straightened out, I hope things are on the upswing.

Later,

obi

Blahhh

2008-09-14T11:43:00.000-07:00

My life has been pretty much blahhhh lately, but two things stand out from all the other crap. I was reminded of the first of them last night as I watched the beginning of Saturday Night Live.

I don’t think I’ve enjoyed that program for about 25 years, but the opening skit with Tina Fey as Sarah Palin was hilarious.

That skit reminded me that I had a dream about Sarah Palin earlier in the week. I don’t normally remember my dreams, and in a million years I’d never imagine that I’d have a dream with her in it. She scares me. I wouldn’t want her anywhere near “the button” if she was having a bad day.

But here’s the dream ~ I’d gone back to work at McDonald’s in Jersey after being out sick for an extended period of time. I had been guaranteed my manager’s job back by the head of HR. But, when I returned to work, my new supervisor was Palin and she made me a grill person.

She smelled good, but shit was she a bitch.

The second not-so-bright spot in the last week was on one of my credit card statements. When I got it Friday morning, it had a notation that I had not made my last payment and that all my interest rates (some of which were as low as 4.99%) had all been jacked up to 18.99%.

Was I pissed? What do you think?

Called customer service and after about an hour had the situation resolved. Thank God for online bank statements. I printed out the cancelled check with the date that it had cleared, gave her the information and we were good to go. She’s sending me some forms to fill out and that will finish it.

But Saturday morning at 8:15 I got a call from their collections department. Righty doesn’t know what lefty is doing. Another 30 minutes on the phone with that jack-ass and I think we’re straight.

Oh, well. It might have been a pain in the ass, but it sure gets the blood pumping.

Later,

obi

Smoke 'em if Ya Gottem

2008-09-01T10:04:00.000-07:00

I’ve been a cigarette smoker since you could buy smokes in a machine for .25 a pack. If you bought regulars, not the new “king” sized killers, you even got three pennies back in change. They were under the cellophane on the side of the pack.

My first brand of choice was Camel unfiltered. I wandered through Lucky Strikes and Pall Mall before taking a mini hint and switching to filters a long time ago.

I’ve gone through many bouts of pneumonia, bronchitis, shortness of breath and chest colds. I even collapsed a lung back in ’74. But I continued to light ‘em up at every opportunity.

Until four weeks ago.

I’d been waking up every morning at about 4 a.m. unable to breathe. If I sat up, I could get more air, but it was still scary. One night I even slept in my recliner because it put less pressure on my lungs.

That decided it for me. The following morning I bought nicotine patches and have been wearing them ever since. I still have a nagging cough, but I can breathe!

Hopefully, this time it will take. I’ve tried and failed many times before, but I need to quit. Hell, I should have quit countless years ago.

Shit ~ I should have never started.

Later,

obi

Dick Cheney: Comedian

2008-06-08T08:26:00.000-07:00

Our esteemed vice-president, Dick Cheney, is not known for his raucous sense of humor. Shooting people while hunting, maybe – but not telling jokes.

This past week he not only told a joke, but he managed to piss off the entire state of West (by God) Virginia. It was something about his wife researching the family tree and discovering that she had forbearers named Cheney. Dick’s response was something to the effect that they weren’t even from West Virginia.

Not bad for ol’ straight-laced Cheney. But we need to delve deeper into the mystique of the “Wild and Wonderful” state. I grew up in Western Pennsylvania – Pittsburgh to be exact. Since it’s only about 60 miles from there to the West (by God) Virginia border, we had no love for the ridge runners to our south. I was appalled, in fact, that my cousin would lower her standards and attend the University of West Virginia.

But I digress.

On the West Virginia Turnpike there is an attraction at exit 45 called “Tamarac – The Very Best of West Virginia.” It’s a collection of crafts made in that state – and it’s all very loosely packed into one small building.

Some other interesting facts about West (by God) Virginia:

Where was the toothbrush invented?
West Virginia. If it had been invented anywhere else it would have been called the teethbrush.

What’s the best thing to ever come out of West Virginia?
I-77.

Enough – enough – enough.

Gotta go.

Later,

obi

A Message From God

2008-06-03T09:39:00.000-07:00

Sunday was Barbara’s birthday and as usual I had no idea what kind of present to give her. So I asked her what she wanted. “Just take me out to dinner,” she said.

Cool. That took me off the hook and I knew she’d be happy.

“Where do you wanna go?” I asked. Believe it or not there are a number of very good restaurants in and around Asheville, NC.

“Let’s go to Hooters,” was her reply.

After I picked myself up off the floor I asked, “Why?”

“They have steamed clams,” she said.

We may have good restaurants here, but being 400 miles from the coast means that the fresh seafood joints are practically non-existent. We do have a Red Lobster, but I’ve never really enjoyed a meal there.

So, Sunday night at about 7 we headed into Asheville to find the local Hooters. After only two wrong turns, and nearly hitting a young black man who was walking up the road with a white towel over his head, we were safely ensconced in their nearly empty parking lot.

We found a table in their smoking section and perused the menu. Not only did they have steamed clams, but they also offered oysters-on-the-half-shell. I was in heaven – until I checked their beer selections. I won’t drink Bud or any of its derivatives – that shot half the menu – likewise with Coors and Corona.

When our surprisingly small hootered waitress finally arrived I ordered an MGD. “A what?” she said. “A Miller Genuine Draft,” I answered. I should have been warned. Barbara ordered a mixed drink and we scanned the menus for a main course selection.

Ten minutes later, our distinctly non-Hooters type waitress returned with Barbara’s drink and a message for me. “We don’t sell MGD anymore,” she said.

Grab the beverage menu one more time. “OK, I’ll have a Killian’s Red.” It was the only other beer on their mostly domestic menu that I would drink.

After another 10-minute wait for the bartender to open a beer bottle, “Little Miss Push-up” sheepishly returned. “You’re not gonna believe this,” she said. “We’re out of Killian’s.”

Barbara and I just looked at each other, dumbfounded.

“OK, just bring me a Jack on-the-rocks.”

As she walked away she said, “You want Coke in that?”

“No, just Jack and ice. That’s all. No Coke, no Sprite, no water! Jack on-the-rocks.”

We’re getting on 30 minutes now, and I still didn’t have a fucking drink. This was not gonna be my night. But that’s OK. It was Barb’s birthday, not mine.

As I waited, parched, for something to drink, the young black man who had been walking up the road came in, with the towel still draped over his head, sat down at a table next to the wall and promptly fell asleep on the table.

Another 10 minutes passed before our red-faced waitress returned. “OK. This is getting weird. Our liquor shipment didn’t come in on Friday – we’re out of Jack Daniels.”

I looked up at her and smiled. “Just bring me an ice-water,” I said. “I know you can’t be out of that.”

Then I realized that this was God’s way of telling me – “Don’t drink and drive.”

Later,

obi

Texas

2008-05-27T14:44:00.000-07:00

Here’s a news flash – Texas is a very big state. I know that sounds idiotic, but let me explain what I mean. You can look at a map of the US and say, “Gee, Texas is a big state.” But you cannot grasp its enormity until you drive across it.

While I was driving a big truck, I spent a lot of time in the Lone Star State. Much of that time was spent sitting in a drop-yard waiting for my next load, but most of it was spent traversing the Interstates and two-lane highways that slice through the state.

At our allowable speed limit (60 mph) and the maximum number of hours we could drive per shift (10) I could cross most states in eight hours or less.

If I were to drive across Texas, through Beaumont, Houston, San Antonio and El Paso following I-10, I would virtually cut the state in half, north to south. It would also take me fifteen hours to drive that distance.

That’s not saying that there’s a lot in Texas, besides land. Everything is just very spread out. You could probably take everything else in Texas, including the people and put it in an area about the size of South Carolina.

You would not lose anything important.

Later,

obi

I Can Die Happy

2008-04-28T11:44:00.000-07:00

My life is now complete. Barb & I saw Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band live last night at Bobcats Arena in Charlotte.

I've seen a number of concerts in my life (beginning with the Beatles in 1965) but never one as great as this one. He started at 7:30 and went through to about 11 or later (I don't wear a watch) without a break! Not only was there no intermission, but most of his songs went straight into the next one with only a "1-2-3-4" screamed by Springsteen.

He sang shit from his first album all the way through his latest.

And the Band - oh my God - the E Street Band. Clarence wailed on sax; Little Steven and Nils rocked on guitars; the female he has touring in place of his wife Patty played a magnificent electric violin; the keyboard player and the pianist who sat in because Danny Federici died last week were phenomenal and Max Weinberg must have lost 15 pounds pounding those damned drums.

Federici had been with the band since the beginning. He just passed away about 7 days before the concert and they started the show with a song Springsteen had written about him. The stage was completely dark and photos of Federici ranging from the earliest days through his final ones with the band flashed on the big screens.

I knew this would be a great show, but it surpassed anything I could have imagined.

WOW!

Later,

obi

Words to Live By

2008-04-13T10:27:00.000-07:00

Too often we lose sight of life’s simple pleasures.
Remember, when someone annoys you –
It takes 42 muscles in your face to frown.

But it only takes 4 muscles to extend your arm and
bitch-slap the motherfucker upside the head.

from "Mr. Paradise" by Elmore Leonard

Later,

obi

Lickalotta Update

2008-03-28T08:23:00.000-07:00

OK guys - you ready for this?

The lesbian couple that planned to open the gay friendly campground named “Camp Lickalotta” was also in the planning stages for an annual music festival to be held at the site.

They had originally explained away the nasty name for their campground as referring to “lickalotta prejudice’ and “lickalotta misconceptions.”

So how will they rationalize the music fest named -

“Bushstock?”

Later,

obi

T-shirt of the Year

2008-03-13T14:38:00.000-07:00

Without a doubt, the T-shirt of the year so far was shown on CNN Headline News this afternoon. I was laughing so hard I thought I’d pee my drawers.

I can’t reproduce the picture here, but the shirt read:

Spitzer spent $80,000
On hookers
And all I got was
This lousy T-shirt

I can’t add anything to that.

Later,

obi

Camp WHAT?

2008-03-07T19:55:00.000-08:00

As most of you regular readers probably know, I live in western North Carolina just south of Asheville. If you’re not familiar with the area you can think what you will, but Asheville - and Buncombe County in which it lies - for the most part, is a relatively progressive area.

Southeast of Buncombe County is Rutherford County, which makes Asheville look like New York City or San Francisco by comparison. Rutherford is mainly rural.

Our local TV station – WLOS – ran a story last night concerning a new campground tentatively planned for Rutherford County. No biggie – right? WRONG!

The camp will be operated by an openly lesbian couple and will be “gay friendly.” The people of Rutherford County are flabbergasted! “Gays – in our county?”

But I’ve not yet related the biggest part of the story. The topper of all toppers is the camp’s proposed name.

Ready?

You sure?
Are you really, really sure?

OK.

Here it is –

The camp will be named………………………………..

Camp Lickalotta

Honest to God! One woman interviewed last night said, “My son’s only 12 and even he knows what that means. That’s all their talkin’ about at his school.

For those of you who think I'm fulla shit - here's the link to Channel 13 news -

http://www.wlos.com/newsroom/nc/topstory/topstory3.shtml

My job is merely to inform.

My work here is done.

Later,

obi

Mistaken Identity

2008-03-05T09:15:00.001-08:00

Why do so many people email me thinking I’m Reinaldo Victorio, that I live at 998 Sueirro Street, and I want to sell my home?

Later,

obi

Malcolm Holcombe - Malcolm Holcombe

2008-02-23T18:29:00.000-08:00

I was reading one of our local Asheville blogs today and ran across a video featuring Malcolm Holcombe, a singer-songwriter from this area. I checked out YouTube and discovered quite a few more by this local legend. It brought back memories.

Back in the mid-80’s, a partner and I opened a small restaurant called the Jersey Shore Deli just north of Asheville. When I say small, I mean small! We had a seating capacity of 40 people.

Our lunch business was great, but our dinner traffic left a lot to be desired – even with our beer and wine licenses. We needed something to draw people in on weekends so they’d see the place, taste our food, and come back during the week. The answer was live music and our first performer was Malcolm Holcombe, probably the most well-known and well liked singer in the area. He had a huge following, and our weekend business exploded. Eventually, we had a rotating stable of about 5 or 6 performers, but our biggest draw was always Malcolm. Check out the link below to see why.

(could not get link to embed – sorry. Just go to You Tube and search for Malcolm Holcomb – you’ll get the idea)

Malcolm was still pretty much a local phenom back then, even though he had performed in Nashville and gotten good reviews there. Somehow we managed to book him for New Year’s Eve, 1985 and we threw a huge, sold-out private party.

Back then, Malcolm loved his beer and we made sure that all our performers had as much of that free lubricant as they wanted. New Year’s eve, being what it is, Malcolm imbibed far more than was his norm and by midnight he was RIGHT – hammering that guitar and belting out some great music.

Our stage was small and on it we had a stool for the singer and a large potted plant (a ficus tree if I remember correctly.) Malcolm was sitting on the stool belting out his rendition of James Taylor’s “Steamroller” and just rockin’ back and forth. Next thing we knew, Malcolm went ass over tin cups backward into the plant – but he never missed a lick. When he finished the song a couple of people went up on the stage and picked him up out of the plant, sat him back on the stool, and he went right into his next song. What a fucking show!

Here’s another link to Malcolm. I don’t know how much he’d been drinking the night this was recorded, but you’ll get the idea. He’s rockin’ the shit out of that chair.

(Again – would not embed. Check out the song where he starts off talking about how good the potato salad is)

Enough of this memory lane crap. Malcolm – if you’re out there – cheers. I’ll have a beer or 6 for you tonight.

Later,

obi

Three-fingered Henry and the Windsor Canadian

2008-02-20T13:05:00.000-08:00

I stopped by the local ABC store today (just to see if it was still there, you understand) and spotted a brand of liquor I haven’t had since I was in college – Windsor Canadian.

Back in the day – the early to mid-60’s – we had a bar just off campus called Frank & Wally’s. Their clientele was comprised mostly of students from Duquesne, but it drew a fair share of business people from the downtown area too.

It was a family run business owned by Frank and his wife Wally (Walenda to be accurate) and the daytime bartender was their son, three-fingered Henry. I never did find out how Henry lost all those digits, but it didn’t slow him down behind the bar.

Besides pouring beer and liquor, Frank & Wally’s served sandwiches and burgers complimented by homemade French-fries. None of that frozen shit that passes for fries today. This was the place to go for lunch.

And go we did. At least three days of the week found our usual cast of characters lined up at the bar drinking draught Budweiser and chowing down on Wally’s great food.
One day after we had eaten our fill, it was firmly decided that this was a drinkin’ day not a classroom day. In those days draught beer was .25 cents, but liquor was still expensive – at least .50 cents a shot – and, being college students, we never had much money.

Enter good ol’ Henry.

“Y’know guys, we just got a new brand of whiskey in called Windsor Canadian,” said Henry, “and the liquor rep gave us a few bottles to use as samples. Anybody want to try a shot?” What a stupid fucking question. All our hands shot skyward.

After the sample shot Henry asked how we liked it. The consensus was that it was good – very smooth. “We got a special price on it too. Only .25 cents a shot.”

Thus began a story that lasted about two years. Now we could afford to buy that good St. Louis Bud (the bottles with the blue caps) and top them off with a shot of Windsor.

And people wonder why I went to college for 4 ½ years and never graduated.

Later,

obi

Thought For the Day

2008-01-28T10:31:00.000-08:00

I don’t have many of these so pay careful attention and make sure that you incorporate these thoughts into your everyday lives.

A crowded elevator
is a whole different experience
for a midget.

Later,

obi

The June Bug Incident

2008-01-16T11:21:00.000-08:00

As noted in several earlier posts, we have 6 cats – each with their own distinct personalities and mental abilities. Of all the felines living with us, my personal favorite is the latest one who adopted us – LC. She’s been sharing our space for about three years and she’s smarter, by far, than most other cats I’ve known.

Case in point.

Last summer I was repainting our kitchen and, in the process, pulled the stove out to paint the wall behind it. You all know what happens when you move a major appliance – there’s so much shit under it that it takes longer to clean the floor than it does to paint the entire wall.

I got a broom and dustpan and proceeded to sweep up all the loose garbage that had accumulated over the past few months since it had been moved the last time. One of the “lumps” that I swept up happened to be a rather large, dead, beetle – one of those big June bug type critters.

I was being observed, as always, by LC. She’s our resident job supervisor, constantly checking that all our chores are done correctly and to her satisfaction. The June bug was duly noted by her and put in her report.

Bug and trash swept up and dumped, I left the dustpan on the floor and proceeded to paint the wall. When I finished, I pushed the stove back in, plugged it up and started to clean up my mess. As I stepped over to get the dustpan off the floor, I got a surprise.

LC had deposited one of her many toys in it. She has catnip mice, little fuzzy play-balls and a large, blue bug. It always reminds me of a smaller version of that big plastic bug that we had to assemble in the old kids game “Cootie.”

LC had seen me sweep up the June bug and assumed that all bugs needed to be put in the dustpan. I hadn’t seen that bug in days, but she apparently knew exactly where she had left it.

Sometimes I’m afraid to go to sleep at night. I fear LC’s going to get back at me for not giving her more cookies.

Later,

obi

My New Knickname

2007-12-24T10:43:00.000-08:00

Besides being Einstein, according to a personality test, I have also been assigned a “Unitarian Jihad” knickname.

My Unitarian Jihad Name is:

Brother Gatling Gun of Love and Mercy.

Get yours.

But I'll still answer to Obiwan.

Later,

obi

O Canada - Part 2

2007-12-10T10:09:00.000-08:00

As promised, more on my driving experiences in the frozen North Country – Canada. As a truck driver, I only made three trips across the border, but they all had their individual challenges. The only constant was that I was lost for a portion of each trip.

Taking product into Canada is a little more intricate than going in with an empty trailer. First, a driver needs to take his rig to an “impound lot” – a large fenced in parking area. Then he gathers up all his customs paperwork, if he has it, and heads to a broker’s office.

Brokers set up all deliveries into Canada, in cooperation with the Canadian Customs Office. The broker checks all the driver’s paperwork and stamps it.

Then it’s off to Customs. They recheck all the paperwork, stamp it again, keep a copy and set you free to roam their magnificent country.

On my second trip into Ontario, I had no customs paperwork – none had been included with my shipment and there were no blank forms in my paperwork box.

I parked in the impound lot and headed for the broker’s office – I at least had his name and address. Luckily, they had blank forms and one of the secretaries filled them in, using my bill of lading as a guide. After that was done, customs was a breeze and I headed back to my truck.

There was, however, one more problem. Standing in front of my truck, patiently waiting for me, was a uniformed Customs Officer.

“Mind if I take a quick look inside your truck?” he asked. What was I going to say? Maybe, “Sorry officer, but I don’t have the time. If I don’t get these drugs to Toronto in the next two hours, the whole deal goes south.”

The “quick” look took 45 minutes and involved three Customs people. They even checked the hard drive on my laptop to make sure I wasn’t smuggling and virtual porn into their country.

So, trip # 2 across the border also turned into a cluster fuck. Stay tuned for the 3rd installment.

Later,

obi

I am Einstein?????

2007-11-26T09:44:00.001-08:00

What Famous Leader Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Later,

obi

Cookie Whore

2007-11-12T10:01:00.000-08:00

I’m not a cat person.

That being said, we have a kitten (plus four other cats, a dog and about a dozen goldfish) that is a doll. I’ve written about her before in the post “LC and Sir” Dec. 30, 2005, but now she has a new trick.

She’s always been a picky eater. Out of every 10 feedings she might eat 3 or 4 times. She’ll walk over to her dish, look at the day’s culinary delight and walk away. Sometimes she’ll sniff it first – then walk away.

Several hours later we’ll hear a rustling sound coming from the kitchen and know she’s on the shelf where we keep her private stash of expensive dry food. Depending on how much of the food is left, we’ll either see her head buried in the bag or, on those occasions where the bag is almost empty, just her butt will be visible. She’ll actually get all the way down into the bag to graze.

Her new nickname, though, is “Cookie Whore.” The moment anyone heads to the kitchen – or even looks like they might be going that way – LC is off at a gallop. By the time we get out there, she’s sitting on the floor, staring up at the container where her treats are stored. If that doesn’t work, she starts rubbing against your leg, purring – telling you that she loves you sooooo much and you need to feed her cookies right now. We normally comply with her wish.

The last time my daughter was home she remarked on the whole LC situation. “You know if you’d raised me the way you’re raising that cat, I’d still be living at home and not married.”

Ah, the truth hurts.

Later,

obi

O Canada

2007-10-18T09:33:00.000-07:00

As a novice truck driver in 2002, I heard numerous horror stories about the perils of driving a big truck into Canada. Two months after my solo-driving career began, I was dispatched to Toronto, Ontario. At least I didn’t have a trailer – it had been dropped along with $500,000 worth of printing plates from Mexico at a Kodak facility in Rochester, NY.

When I got to the border, two lanes of trucks were backed up for about a mile. When I got to the border guard, he was very pleasant. He asked to see my CDL, asked me where I was from, where I was going, what I was picking up, how long I would be in Canada and where I was going to re-enter the States. He handed back my license and said, “Have a good trip.” I was in.

I picked up an empty trailer at one of our customer’s lots in Toronto and headed to my pickup. Of course my directions sucked and no one I asked seemed to know where that particular industrial park was.

After about two hours of driving around the outskirts of Toronto, I finally found it.

The warehouse where I picked up my load of pastry dough was in an office/industrial park and had a very small dock area. Add to this the fact that there were employee cars parked everywhere. There was also a trailer parked in their only other dock, making it a very tight squeeze. As I wrestled with my truck, trying to get it into the hole, the employees decided it was break time. About 15 women, primarily Asian and Hispanic, came outside to sit and smoke cigarettes. They witnessed the entire, terrifying spectacle as I tried to dock my truck. When I finally did get into the loading dock, I got a standing ovation.

Trailer loaded, I headed for Chicago. My route took me across the Ambassador Bridge and through Detroit customs. It was another long wait, and the scrutiny was a little more thorough getting back into the States. They asked a few more questions and studied my license a bit closer but finally, I was back on home soil. What really pissed me off was that I had to pay to get back into my own country.

There were other trips to Canada – some of them a little hairier than this one. I’ll save those for another time.

Later,

obi

As Promised - A Long Time Ago

2007-10-05T10:02:00.000-07:00

No, I did not die. Just haven't been into writing for the past few months. I have, however finished two furniture projects and started on a third. Oh yeah - I've also repainted the walls in all but one room of the house.

The piece of furniture that I alluded to in one of my last posts was a birthday present for my daughter. For as long as I can remember (and I'm an old fart) a small, dark- colored desk sat in our living room at home. I can still see my father, who died in 1964, sitting at that desk paying bills. When my mother passed away in 1999, the desk became mine. It sat in my home office, basically unused, for the next 8 years. When Cayta was about to turn 30, I decided it was time to pass it on.

It looked like the above photo by the time I got around to working on it. It had taken a beating, but it was still structurally sound. A lot of sand paper, steel wool, elbow grease and sweat later, it became Cayta's birthday present. I know it's over 50 years old, but how many years it was around before then are a mystery. The picture below is the end result of my labor.

The other piece that I undertook was an ancient 3-drawer chest that Barbara and I bought at an old antique/junk shop in Binghamton, NY in the early 70's. It's selling price was written in crayon on the inside base of the top drawer and it's still there - $8! I refinished it not long after we got it, but it still looked like shit. Over the ensuing years it sat in our living room enduring a variety of misuses. At one point, it was a stand for a 30-gallon fish tank. That particular incarnation seriously damaged the chest's structure. The top became waterlogged and and it listed to one side.

When I began the refinishing process this time I found it impossible to get the top sanded smooth - I kept running into soft spots. I even tried a belt-sander, but could not get to sound wood. The solution was a screw driver - I gouged out the rotten spots, filled them with wood filler and painted the top satin black. I added support to the chest's frame, realigned the drawers, added a false back for appearances so that it doesn't need to be against a wall and started on the sanding and refinishing process. Sadly, I don't have any "before" photos, but the picture below is how it looks now.

The current project is a little less ambitious. Barbara bought a set of antique dining room chairs about 20 years ago. We used them for a while, then acquired a new dining room set. The chairs were relegated to our basement - and no good can come from that. They are not yet finished, but below are "before" and "afters."

So, that's how I spent my summer. The impetus for my getting back to the blog was a comment this week from a new fan who seems to enjoy my ramblings. Ya gotta do what ya gotta do.

Later,

obi

Screwed Up !

2007-07-09T14:30:00.000-07:00

I really fucked up the pictures in my last post. I have before and after pics of both pieces of furniture, but they are not in the right order. The upper left picture is the finished pic of the bottom left photo. The bottom right and the upper right go together. I think you can figure out which is before and which is after. Later, obi

Luke - I'm Your Uncle

2007-07-09T12:27:00.000-07:00

Doesn’t that picture remind you of a Storm Trooper from Star Wars? Hell, one of them was probably related to Darth Vader, maybe a brother, so I figured he’d be Luke’s uncle. Actually, it’s a respirator mask for noxious fumes and sanding dust.

Refinishing old furniture has been a hobby of mine for longer than I care to remember. For the past few years it’s been put on the back burner while all the broken bones in both my arms have been healing – as much as they’re going to heal.

Lately, however, I’ve been on a binge. I started with a dining room hutch of ours that had been abused for a long, long time. I removed the upper shelving unit, then stripped and refinished the base unit in its natural pine. The top looks like a sheet of glass. Very proud of that piece. Too bad I don't have before and after pictures of it.

When I visited my daughter and her husband in Georgia a while back, they asked me to spruce up an old bedroom chest they had found at the local Goodwill store. It was not in the best shape structurally, so it took a little more work to get it looking presentable. I had to replace both side panels and brace most of its supports. I stained it a darker shade, then put three coats of polyurethane on it. Below are the before and after pictures.

When I left to return to North Carolina, they asked if I would consider doing another Goodwill chest they had. I loaded it into my pickup and brought it home.

One of its previous owners had attempted to rebuild it and had totally fucked it up. The lower three drawers had a pattern carved into them, and whoever tried to repair it in the past had taken one of the drawer fronts off and, for some reason replaced it upside down. Apparently they had fiddled with all the drawer fronts because none of them fit into the carcass properly. You can see in the picture on the left that all the drawers stick out from the base unit.

Lots of rebuilding, sanding, staining and sealing ensued, but I think the final product was worth it. In this photo, you can see how the pattern in the lower three drawers was designed to look.

I can’t really discuss my next project here until next week, but I will show before and after pictures of it next time.

So far, none of these projects have been for profit, but hopefully that will change. I’m going to see my daughter this weekend and we’ve planned a trip to their local Goodwill store. I’m hoping they’ll have one or two pieces that show some potential.

Later,

obi

Speed Kills

2007-06-04T12:32:00.000-07:00

There was a horrible traffic accident on I-40 in a county that borders ours. It happened several months ago and killed a 2 year-old girl and injured her mother, sister and grand-mother seriously. They were not at fault.

The driver of the guilty vehicle has said that he never saw the other car before the wreck. He was not seriously injured, nor was he arrested at the scene.

Last week he went before a grand jury and was charged with reckless driving and accidental death by motor vehicle – both MISDEMEANOR offenses. The penalties for these crimes consist of fines, probation or community service! .

How can this happen in a criminal justice system that is supposedly fair and impartial?

It can happen because the driver was a cop – a county Sheriff’s Deputy. He was on his way to assist another officer, attempting to enforce a misdemeanor infraction.

The minimal charges could be understood if all the circumstances involved in the accident were in the Deputy’s favor - if the other car didn’t hear his siren or see his flashing blue lights and pulled out in front of him; if his full attention had been devoted to the task at hand – driving his patrol car; or if he had been traveling at a speed reasonable for the weather conditions.

But the circumstances were not on his side. The other vehicle was traveling at the speed limit in the right-hand lane. The Deputy chose, for some reason, not to use his flashing lights or siren and was supposedly searching for his destination in an Atlas at the time of the wreck. Plus he was traveling at nearly twice the posted speed limit when it was not only dark but also foggy.

He was placed on a job that does not require driving after the accident. He was suspended without pay after the grand jury. Anyone else would have been arrested at the scene and charged with second-degree manslaughter.

The justice system is indeed blind, but it does peek out briefly to see if the offender is a cop.

Later,

obi

Current Events

2007-05-17T12:26:00.000-07:00

A lot has been going on lately.

Paris is going to jail, Bo Diddley had a stroke, Jerry Falwell died, the Steelers have a new coach, a bunch of local teachers/youth caregivers have been arrested for molesting their young charges, child molesters are infiltrating MySpace.

As far as Paris Hilton is concerned, I hope they put her in a cell with a 300-pound crack whore from south-central LA. Show her what life is really like.

I’m sorry Bo had a stroke, but I was never really a fan of his music. I would have been more upset had it been Eric Clapton or Carlos Santana.

Falwell’s Moral Majority just pissed me off. A bunch of ultra-conservative bible thumpers trying to regulate the country’s morality while they’re out humping their secretaries.

Another “rebuilding” year for my football team. At least they have 5 Super Bowl rings.

How can you prevent horny teacher from taking advantage of teenagers with raging hormones? It’s still the teachers’ fault, but most of these young boys are probably very willing participants. I still remember my 8th grade English teacher and the nasty thoughts I had about her.

Child molesters should be a very easy problem to eliminate. Either castrate them or hang them. It wouldn’t take many executions or disfigurements to send the rest a strong message.

Later,

obi

Arthur is a Badass

2007-04-30T13:39:00.000-07:00

I feel like shit! Really – all soft and brown and stinky.

About 10 years ago I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. You know the old joke:
“Them Ritis boys is bad, but Arthur’s the meanest one.”
Well. arthritis is bad and rheumatoid is the meanest one. The reason I was diagnosed tells you how strange this disease can be. While sitting at home watching TV one evening, my hand began to swell – quickly. I ran to my toolbox, grabbed some side-cut pliers and snipped off the ring I wore on that hand. In 5 minutes my hand had swollen so much that the ring was imbedded in flesh. After a bunch of tests, rheumatoid arthritis was found to be the culprit.

Then it was weekly trips to a rheumatologist, trying different drugs and combinations of drugs to see which my body would respond to. Some of them were dangerous – others just had freaky side-effects. The steroids I took eventually dissolved the cartilage in my right hip. I had a hip replacement. They also affected my eyes. I had cataracts removed from both.

Now I’m on an injectible drug called Humira. I give myself a subcutaneous shot once every two weeks, and it seems to be working. At least it did seem to be working.

Friday night my right foot started to ache. No big deal – I get aches and pains all the time. By the time I got ready for bed, however, it was getting difficult to walk. By Saturday morning I needed a cane to take the weight off my foot. It felt like a sprained ankle, but there was no swelling. By Saturday afternoon my foot and ankle had swollen dramatically, and I needed crutches to get around.

Sunday morning I finally said, “fuck this,” and went to the local Urgent Care center where I was told that x-rays showed no bone damage and this was probably connected to my rheumatoid arthritis. I should see my rheumatologist as soon as possible.

I have an appointment at 9 o’clock tomorrow morning, and as long as the Vicodins don’t run out I should make it till then.

Later,

obi

The I Man

2007-04-11T12:08:00.000-07:00

Don Imus has done it again. He’s put his foot so far into his mouth that it’s starting to come out of his ass. “Nappy headed ho’s?” Don, you’re an idiot.

I remember listening to “Imus in the Morning” during the early 70’s on WNBC out of New York City. At the time I was living in New Jersey and caught his program on my way to work each morning. He may have been addicted to drugs and alcohol at the time, but the sumbitch WAS funny. That seems to have changed with his sobriety.

While watching his interview on The Today Show yesterday, one of his “slips of the tongue” caught my attention. I don’t know how many others noticed it or if they read into it the same significance that I did.

Matt Lauer was interviewing both Imus and the Reverend Al Sharpton at the time. Following one of Sharpton’s comments, Imus responded with, “Well, Reverend Hargus – I mean Sharpton…..” Anyone who had listened to the old Imus would have caught that immediately.

Imus had recurring characters on his old radio program and one of them was the Reverend Billy Saul Hargus, “Broadcasting to you from the Gold Buckle of the Bible Belt, Del Rio Texas.” It was a rip on radio evangelists, and regularly tore them all new assholes.

The lead-in for the skit was musical and performed by a black, female gospel choir. To the best of my recollection, and remember this was 35 years ago, the choir sang:

“I don’t care if it rains or freezes,
Long as I got my plastic Jesus,
Ridin’ on the dashboard of my car.
I can do a hundred miles an hour,
Long as I got the almighty power,
Sittin’ up there beside my fuzzy dice.”

So, was Imus’s miscue an actual slip of the tongue or one of those Freudian types, meant to stick it to the Reverend Al? We may never know, but I’d be willing to bet on the latter.

Later,

obi

Look Before You Leap

2007-04-06T11:25:00.000-07:00

One of the first lessons I learned when I started driving a big truck was to never drive into a situation where you cannot see an obvious escape route. Of course I learned this the hard way.

It was my second solo trip, and I was delivering chickens to a processing plant in Gainesville, Georgia. The directions sent by my dispatcher sucked. I later learned that this was standard operating procedure. My route had brought me from Alabama to Atlanta onto I-285, then I-85 north and onto I-985 to Gainesville. That’s as far as my directions went – no exit number, no highway name, nothing. Since I had come through the Big Chitterling (the south’s version of the Big Apple) it was, needless to say, very early in the morning – about 3 a.m.

I exited 985 at the first Gainesville interchange that I came to – a four-lane highway. Luckily there was no traffic at that hour. There were also no signs pointing to a chicken processing plant. But there were lights in the distance. Just like in “Poltergeist” I headed toward the light.

The illumination turned out to be a convenience store on my side of the highway, but there was not enough room in their parking lot for 70’ of tractor-trailer. Next door, however, was a brand new Laundromat with a large, vacant parking area.

I had no trouble at all getting into the Laundromat parking lot and I saw what looked like a large exit on the other side that would get me back out onto the highway. I parked my rig and hustled over to get directions.

Two cabbies were sitting in front of the store taking a coffee break. Who better to ask for directions? I walked up to one of the cabs and knocked on its window and the cabbie rolled it down.

“You have any idea where the XYZ Chicken Plant is?” I asked.

He smiled, pointed down a side street across from the C-store and said, “Right there, bud. You drivin’ that big rig parked next door?”

I answered in the affirmative.

“Good luck getting’ that bitch out of there,” he said while laughing his ass off.

I went back to my truck, fired it up, put my headlights on and pulled up to the “exit.” It wasn’t an exit – it was actually a large parking spot with a curb between it and the grass median that led to the highway – which meant that I’d need to back out of the lot the same way I had come in.

Avoiding all the new landscaping, I worked for about 45 minutes backing out of that lot, pulling forward, backing up, changing my angle, pulling forward again, cutting the front wheels again, and backing up. Repeat – repeat – repeat.

But a valuable lesson was learned. I should have just put on my four-way flashers, pulled into the turning lane and run into the C-store for directions.

Later,

obi

Gettin' Back onthe Horse

2007-04-04T06:11:00.000-07:00

The last three posts, all of them dealing with my trucker’s dictionary, were pretty easy – they were written several years ago as part of my book. All I did was break it into three sections, then copy and paste into my blog. It was sort of an easy way to slide back into putting something on paper.

Actually, I’ve wanted to write, but my fancy hasn’t been tickled lately. I haven’t even worked on any of my Ron Gabriel short stories. There are five so far – two pretty much wrapped up and three more in various stages of completion. Of course I haven’t found a market for them yet, but why rush into things?

Yesterday, rather than sit down at the computer and crank something out that would actually interest some readers, I power-washed my front porch – the prelude to restaining it. Sucker took about 5 hours to finish, and it’s only 10’ by 10’. Today I need to repeat the process on my deck. That sumbitch is 30’ by 12’. I need to get it finished before house-plant moving time.

Every summer all our house plants migrate from our living room to the deck where they will flourish. When we first moved to Asheville, we’d put the plants outside during the first warm spell – normally in late March. Hell – we live in the south, right?

Wrong. Every year, about the first or second week of April, we’d be rushing around trying to get them all back in before the predicted frost or freeze. Now we wait until well into April before we perform this seasonal ritual. It’s a good thing we waited this year – temperatures are forecast to dip into the upper 20’s for the next few days. That’s another reason I wanted to get the decks cleaned up now. I’ll stain them both after the freeze.

Well, this wasn’t that interesting, but it did get me back into writing.

Later,

obi

Dictionary - Part Three

2007-04-02T10:06:00.000-07:00

Drum roll, please - the final installment of the trucker’s dictionary.

PICKLE PARK
Trucker’s term for highway rest area. You figure it out.
QUALCOMM
An infernal contraption which sends and receives instant messages between a driver and
his office. It’s sort of like e-mail. The unit itself looks like a cross between a computer
and an old word processor.
RADIO RAMBO
Ass-hole drivers who use their radios to pick fights.
REEFER
No, not the kind you roll - the refrigeration unit that cools a trailer. They are diesel
powered, and make a hell of a lot of noise. You learn to sleep with them running all night
about two feet from your head.
SATELLITE
Also called a slave pump. Since big trucks have two fuel tanks (no, they’re not gas tanks)
two pumps are needed for fueling. The one on the driver’s side is a regular pump, with
readouts for gallons and dollars. The satellite pump, on the passenger side, has no
display, just a hose. It is only activated when the main pump is operating, and its gallons
and cost read out on the main pump totals.
SKATE BOARD
A flat-bed trailer
SEAT COVER
Trucker’s term for the female occupant(s) of a passing vehicle. They are generally young, attractive and long legged.
SERPENTINE
A side-to-side steering maneuver (quite snake-like) that swings the tail of your trailer. This is how a backing set-up is performed. You serpentine until your trailer is lined up with the hole that you’re trying to back into.
SMOKEY
See Bear
SUPER COOP
Slang term for one of the newer, larger weigh stations. These normally have much more room to park “out of service” trucks and some have buildings
large enough to pull an entire rig into for inspections.
“20”
One of the “10” codes used on CB’s. When someone asks what your “20” is, they are
asking for your location.
TANDEMS
There are actually two types of tandems. The drive tandems are the two sets of wheels at
the back of a tractor. They drive the truck. The trailer tandems are the two sets of wheels
at the rear of a tractor. They act as a pivot point when the truck is turned. They are
capable of being moved forward and backward on the trailer frame in order to adjust the
trailer’s weight distribution or bridge.
TARE WEIGHT LINE
The same road marking as the fog line. Past this line, the road’s engineers do not
guarantee that the highway will support the weight of a big truck.
TRACTOR
The business end of a semi. It’s the end where the driver sits.
TRAILER
Pretty self-explanatory. It’s the part that hauls the stuff. Got it?
TRIP PAK
A service, similar to UPS or FEDEX, used by some trucking companies to get needed
paperwork from the road to the home office. Drivers put completed Trip Pak envelopes in
a bright yellow box located at truck stops, where it’s picked up by couriers on a daily
basis.
WAGON
Truckers’ term for a trailer.
WRAPPER
Color of an unmarked patrol car. “That bear’s in a plain white wrapper.”
WIGGLE WAGON
A double trailer. So called because the back trailer seems to wander, or wiggle, going down the road. I heard this from a female driver, so it may just be a “girl thing.”
YARD DOG
Also called a yard mule. A very small, short tractor used in warehouse yards to move
trailers. They are extremely maneuverable and can put a trailer in a space no normal
tractor can. Their fifth wheel also raises and lowers, so they can lift and move a trailer
without raising the landing gear.
YARD STICK
Highway mile marker
ZIPPER
Dotted line on the highway

Finis.

Later,

obi

Dictionary - Part Deux

2007-04-01T11:12:00.000-07:00

As promised - more trucker dictionary terms.

DROP DECK
A trailer similar to a flat bed, but much lower to the ground. Used primarily to transport heavy equipment, its deck is actually lower than its attachment to the tractor.

DROP YARD
A large, fenced area – normally with security – where trailers are stored. They act as transfer stations where empty trailers are dropped and loaded ones picked up. Most large companies have them scattered around the country.

DRY VAN
The trailers probably pulled by 75% of the nation’s trucks. These are the plain, ol’ box trailers that you see everywhere on the highways. They vary in length, but most are now 53’ long.

EARS
A term used to ask if your CB is turned on. As in, “Hey, driver - got your ears on?”

EVEL KNEIVEL
Motorcycle cop.

FIFTH WHEEL
The part of the tractor that the trailer hooks into. It’s shaped like a fat horseshoe with the opening facing to the rear of the tractor. The trailer’s kingpin slides into that opening and locks in place.

FOG LINE
The white line painted on the right shoulder of a highway. (I’d bet a whole lot of money that you didn’t know that one.)

FULL GROWN
A “bear” is full grown if he’s a state trooper and in a completely marked vehicle.

GLAD HANDS
Attachments at the ends of the air lines which run from a tractor to a trailer. They connect the lines controlling a trailer’s brakes. Without them, no air can be fed to the trailer’s brake system and the brakes cannot be released.

GRANNY LANE
Slow, or right-hand, lane of traffic.

HAMMER LANE
Passing lane. “You got a bear comin’ up fast in the hammer lane.”

HAMMER DOWN
Accelerator all the way to the floor and traveling at very high speed. Formerly called “pedal to the metal.”

HAZMAT Abbreviation for HAZardous MATerials. There are many classifications of Hazmat loads. Some items, such as cosmetics, would not considered dangerous by the average person. In large quantities, however, they do pose a health risk in the event of an accident.

HONEY BEAR
Female police or DOT officer.

JAKE BRAKE
This one goes by a number of different names, with Jake brake being the most common. It can also be called an engine retarder, an engine brake or an exhaust brake. This device forces exhaust gasses back through the engine to slow it down. It also makes the truck sound very loud and cool.

JERSEY WALL
Concrete barriers that highway crews use to separate lanes when they’re working on an Interstate. I can’t imagine why they’re named after the loveliest state in the Union.

KING PIN
A steel pin, about as round as a tin can, that sticks down from the bottom of a trailer. It slips into the fifth wheel on a tractor, and the two lock together. Because it’s round, it lets the trailer pivot so that it can turn.

LANDING GEAR
The legs that support a trailer when it’s not attached to a tractor.

LOAD LOCKS
Metal poles that expand to the inside width of a trailer. They are placed against the freight, then expanded to wedge them against the trailer walls and “lock” your load in place.

LOT LIZARD
An affectionate nick-name for a prostitute who normally works truck stops. They come in all shapes, sizes and colors, and usually hawk their wares over CB radios.

OTR
Abbreviation for over-the-road trucker. Also called a long-haul driver. They are normally dispatched to anywhere in the U.S. or Canada. Other classifications include “regional” where a driver runs only in one area of the country (say, the southeast) or “day” drivers who are only out one day at a time, usually making all their drops in one city. There are also “dedicated” drivers who always run the same route.

OUT OF SERVICE
What the DMV will do to a truck if it’s found to be unsafe. The truck does not move until the violations are corrected. A driver can also be placed out of service for logbook violations.

PARKING LOT
Automobile hauler.

More soon.

Later,

obi

Dictionary

2007-03-31T12:58:00.000-07:00

This is part one in a series of trucker terms – it’s a dictionary meant to “learn” you what truckers are talking about.

ALLIGATOR
Large strips of rubber which have worn off recapped truck tires. When they’re lying on the highway, they look like ‘gators.

ARTICULATED VEHICLE
Any vehicle with a break in the middle. A car pulling a trailer or camper is articulated, as is a tractor-trailer combination. They require more training and skill to turn and back than a straight vehicle.
AVON LADY

A skunk - more specifically a dead skunk whose odor still lingers.

BEAR Dot or Highway Patrol officer.

BIG TRUCK
What truckers now call a tractor-trailer. The “in” term was, at one time, 18-wheeler or big rig.

BOBTAIL A tractor driving without a trailer.

BRIDGE LAW
This one confused the hell out of me when I first started driving. I always thought it had something to do with weight limits and bridges. It’s actually a formula for how close together your tractor and trailer tandems need to be. This regulates how much weight you are “bridging” between two sets of axels. Bridge laws vary from state to state.

BULL HAULER
A slang term for a livestock trailer. It doesn’t matter what kind of livestock is being transported – it’s still a bull hauler.

CB Citizen’s band radio. Used for two-way communications over short distances.

CDL Commercial Driver’s License. They come in two flavors, “A” and “B”. An “A” license means you can drive anything as long as you have an endorsement for it. You can drive tractor-trailers, but you need an endorsement to drive doubles and triples, hazardous materials or buses. The “B” license is normally for any non-articulating (not bending in the middle) vehicle such as a dump truck or the larger 6-wheeled delivery trucks that have a gross weight over 25,000 lbs.

CHICKEN COOP
Trucker term for a weigh station.

CONDO Newer tractors that have bunk beds, closets and spaces for a TV or refrigerator. You can actually stand up in them.

COPY CB speak for “Did you hear me?” as in “Did you copy that, driver?” the response would be: “10-4, driver. I copy.”

COVERED WAGON
A flat bed trailer with wooden side walls that are about 3 to 4 feet high. These walls have metal hoops attached at the top that are covered with a tarp. This gives them the look of an old “Prairie Schooner” or covered wagon.

DAY CAB A tractor with no sleeper unit. Used normally by drivers who make all their deliveries in one day and return home each night. They’re about 10 feet shorter that a tractor with a sleeper, therefore easier to maneuver in city traffic and tight loading docks.

DEADHEAD Traveling with an empty trailer. Only done when absolutely necessary, because, while the driver makes mileage money, the company makes nothing if the trailer is empty. Because of the trailer’s lighter weight, they are also more difficult to stop.

DISCO LIGHTS
Flashing lights on top of a police car. “Got a full grown headin’ north with the his disco lights on and the hammer down.”

DMV Department of Motor Vehicles. The state agency that enforces the DOT laws, which regulate the trucking industry.

DOT Department of Transportation. The Federal agency that writes the laws governing all commercial interstate movement on public highways.

DOT BUMPER
The piece of steel that hangs down about 2 feet on the rear of a trailer. It is government mandated, and its sole purpose is to keep a speeding car from going under a trailer on impact. The next logical step would be DOT side bumpers.

DOT TAPE
The reflective red and silver tape on the sides and backs of trailers that will glow when hit by headlights. Especially helpful when a truck is broken down and its lights are not operating.

DOCK LOCKS
A hook engaged by the shipper/receiver when a truck backs into their loading dock. When they drop the dock plate, a hook simultaneously comes up and latches onto your DOT bumper. You cannot pull away from the dock without ripping off your bumper or their dock lock.

DOCK PLATE
A drawbridge type contraption that levels a shipper/receiver’s loading dock with a trailer’s floor. It enables a forklift to run from the loading dock into a trailer.

DRIVER What “big truck” drivers now call each other, especially on the CB. At times may be interchangeable with shit head, dick head or sumbitch.

DRIVER’S AWARDS
Trucker term for a traffic ticket. “There’s a full grown bear givin’ out driver’s awards back at the 254 yardstick.”

There will be more soon – honest.

Later,

obi

Your 15 Minutes Are Over

2007-02-09T14:54:00.001-08:00

Anna Nicole Smith died Thursday and you would think, from watching the news on television, that the President Bush had been assassinated. The Today Show devoted most of its three hours Friday morning speculating on how she died, why she died and most of her checkered past. They interviewed psychologists, psychiatrists and people from various gossip magazines.

What were her claims to fame? Well, she was a topless dancer – not too many of them around. She was a model for Guess Jeans – probably the only one with any curves. She was a Playboy centerfold – less than 500 of them around. I heard somewhere that she was an actress – but I’ve never heard of anything she was in. Oh, that’s right – she married some ancient millionaire and sort of inherited about a zillion dollars.

That’s it! Except for the fact that she just had a baby and no one knows who the father might be. At least 3 men are saying it’s theirs, but probably just for the inheritance that may or may not materialize.

I’m not happy when anyone dies, but I think she outlived her 15 minutes of fame by about 10 years.

Later,

obi

The Singing Feline

2007-02-08T10:39:00.000-08:00

You may remember from an earlier post (LC and Sir, December, 2005) that we have quite a menagerie including 7 cats, one dog – Tina Turner – and about a dozen gold fish. Well, the number of cats has been reduced by one. No, she didn’t die, she just got sick of being beat up on a daily basis by our only male pet and moved next door.

The male cat is named “Sir,” but we normally just call him PITA, short for Pain In The Ass. I know that “Sir” is a strange name for a cat, but that was his handle when we adopted him. According to his former owners he had two male siblings and they were named, collectively, Sir, Isaac and Newton. You had to know his former owners. We adopted another cat from the same people, a three-legged female named Ilsa. We tried to change her moniker to Tripod, but she never quite accepted that.

Our oldest feline is named “Socks” because she’s black and white with white stockings. Her daughters are Zieda, Not Zieda and Thor. Thor is the one who deserted us. Both of the Ziedas are pure black and barely distinguishable from each other, but Zieda is by far the friendlier of the two. My wife had named her but not her twin sister. When we’d see one run across the living room, the question was always, “Was that Zieda?” Of course the answer half the time was, “No, that was not Zieda.” The name stuck and, believe it or not, the cats can differentiate between the two.

And, of course, we have the baby who’s now about 1 ½ years old. Named LC because she reminds me of a little Elsie the cow, she’s the darling of the bunch. Unlike the rest of the herd, she seems to be very well adjusted and she’s cute as a little stuffed animal.

But back to Sir. He’s started something new in that past few weeks – he’s begun serenading us at 5:30 AM. He walks into the bedroom every morning, scratches at the dust ruffle on our mattress, then starts singing. If it was done at any other time of the day it would actually be kind of pretty. But the only time he sings is when he’s trying to wake us up so that he can have breakfast. If the singing doesn’t get us up he jumps on the bed and harasses the female cats that sleep with Barbara. Once they start spitting and growling, he runs across my head and goes to wait for breakfast in the kitchen.

I’m normally the one who stumbles out of the sack, finds him waiting patiently for food, and throws him outside. I can tolerate them, but I’m really not a “cat person.”

Later,

obi

Work, Work, Stop

2007-01-14T14:20:00.000-08:00

I’ve had a lot of jobs in my life.

At 13, I started working as a clerk in a small family-run deli and food market in Wilkinsburg, PA. By the time I left, at 22 I was the manager, opening and closing the store when the owners went on vacation or for weekend trips. During the school year, I worked nights and weekends and during the summers I worked whenever they needed me.

When I began college I got a real, full-time job at the Gas Company where my father worked for his entire adult life. I was what was then called a “casual laborer.” There was nothing “casual” about it.

I was sent out with repair crews to replaced broken or leaking gas supply pipes. My primary job was to dig up the pipes, watch while they were repaired, then back-fill the holes or ditches. Since another one of my responsibilities was to retrieve tools and supplies from the truck, one of the first things I learned was that the distance from the tip of my outstretched pinky finger to the tip of my thumb was 8 ½ inches. That way I could use my hand to gauge the length of short sections of pipe.

My hours were 7 am to 4 pm Monday to Friday at the Gas Company. Then I’d rush home, shower, eat dinner and head to the deli three nights a week. On Saturdays I worked 11 to 7 at the deli and on Sundays I slept. The Gas Company job paid my college tuition and the deli job paid for fun – when I had time for it.

My first job as a real grown-up was at a small radio station in Geneva, New York, in the Finger Lakes region. I was the night DJ, working from 7 pm to sign-off at 12:30 am during one of the most exciting eras in popular music, the mid – 1960’s. I was WGVA’s Nighthawk until 1967.

Since I had a young family, I needed to make more money than a small-town radio station was able to afford. This was well before the age of home computers, so I took my resume to a local printer who also published a weekly newspaper in Seneca Falls, NY. He took one look at my education and work history and offered me a job as manager of the local Chamber of Commerce, a one-man and part-time secretary operation. The money and hours were better, so I changed careers.

By 1969, I actually knew what I was doing in the job and decided that it was time for another change. As the old saying goes, “money talks and bullshit walks,” and I was off to Niagara Falls, NY as Public Relations manager of their C of C. With a great salary, an expense account and a company vehicle it was the best job I’ve ever had. But all good things must come to an end, this one far more quickly that I had hoped for.

In early 1970, the city council voted to cut its Chamber of Commerce subsidy. My job was part of that arrangement and I started looking for a replacement job before I was laid off. Thus, I found one of the worst jobs I’ve ever had. I moved to Binghamton, NY and took a job as Public Relations Director with the Broome County Chamber. The job wasn’t that terrible, but the Executive Vice President who I worked for was a giant asshole. At five feet, five inches tall he was the personification of the “Napoleon complex,” a loud mouthed bully who was never wrong and whose decisions were never to be questioned. After my first wife and I split he fired me because, according to him, he had hired a family man and I no longer fit that description.

So, a series of part-time, flunky jobs followed augmented by a lot of alcoholic consumption. Finally, I got a job through an employment agency as a manager trainee for McDonald’s hamburger chain in Rahway, NJ. It was actually a pretty decent career. The money and benefits were great, but the hours sucked. I stayed in restaurant management until 1988, moving from McDonald’s in NJ to a barbeque start-up in Asheville, NC, a Big Boy restaurant franchise and a seafood restaurant. Then came a brief stint as a cookie salesman and it was back into the food business. I worked as an assistant manager at a theme-restaurant chain in the local shopping mall, then manager of a Mexican restaurant and back to the theme restaurant as the kitchen manager.

In 1985, the manager and I both quit our mall jobs and opened our own place, the Jersey Shore Deli, a 40-seat place north of Asheville. We featured live music on week-ends and business was great! We lasted about a year until my partner snorted up out of business, using the cash register as his own personal bank for buying his coke.

The following two years were split between management jobs at a chicken franchise and a truck stop restaurant. After pulling one too many double shifts in the truck stop kitchen, I left the business for good.

For the next 12 years I worked as a route salesman for three sandwich companies, selling and delivering our products to convenience stores in North and South Carolina. For the final three years of that career, I was a supervisor, supposedly overseeing route operations, but really just running vacation routes and others where a salesman had quit.

Following hip-replacement surgery in 2001, my rheumatoid arthritis became too painful for me to continue a physically demanding job, so I switched careers again. In January, 2002, I attended truck driving school and spent the next two years navigating the country at the wheel of an 18-wheeler, traveling through 47 states and logging over 215,000 miles.

After a freak accident at home, I was forced to go on disability, where I remain. So, after 50 years of hard work, I end up being supported by Uncle Sam. C’est la vie.

Later,

Obi

Shut Down

2007-01-10T10:54:00.000-08:00

We had snow yesterday. Not much – about an inch – but it wreaked havoc.

Denver, CO was closed down for days because of snow several weeks ago. But they had several feet of the white stuff. Asheville got 1”. Our local news reported over 200 accidents including 4 school bus incidents. Today, most of the local schools are closed, the rest on 2-hour delays.

I grew up in Pittsburgh, then lived for another 10 years in upstate New York and New Jersey. Snow? Fuck it – just another day. You shoveled it, drove in it and played in it. I don’t remember a single “snow day” while I was in school.

In the south – and this isn’t even the deep south – everyone races to the super market when there’s even a hint of snow in the forecast. The store shelves are cleared of bread and milk in minutes. Once the snow hits – if it hits – people hole up in their homes like hermits. Schools close, businesses shut down and the area goes into hibernation.

Several years ago, all the weather prognosticators were calling for a major snowfall. They showed charts and graphs of the storm heading this way from the most dangerous of locations – the Gulf of Mexico. They promised that the snowfall would hit overnight and be measured in feet, not inches.

All the school systems the area cancelled classes before a single flake hit the ground. Super markets sold out of all the food staples in hours. When the sun came up the morning of the promised storm – nothing! The front had bypassed up and left us with a warm, sunny day.

We do have the other extreme though.

Those hearty souls with 4-wheel drive vehicles come out of the woodwork to play in the snow. The problem is most of them don’t have a clue what they’re doing. They believe that 4-wheel drive will not only let them go in the snow, but that it will help them stop too. Don’t even ask how that works out. They also think that their 4-wheelers will go on ice.

It’s great to live in the south.

Later,

obi

Wind and Fire

2007-01-09T09:45:00.000-08:00

The Santa Ana winds are kickin’ up again in California. On the news this morning there was film of several multi-million dollar home going up in flames.

In January of 2003, I was headed from LA to Yuma, Arizona. My trip took me down I-5 to San Diego where I connected with I-8 for the trip east. The whole way south on the 5, forest fires whipped by the Santa Ana winds had firefighters and forestry workers stretched to their limits. Fire trucks lined the road’s shoulders. Smoke and flames were all I could see along the roadside.

As I got closer to San Diego, less smoke blackened the sky, but the winds were still strong. I found my connection with I-8 and started east.

Just east of San Diego a flashing sign informed me:

I-8 CLOSED AHEAD TO
HIGH PROFILE VEHICLES

About ten miles further down the road at the exit for Alpine, CA, orange cones cut the Interstate down to one lane. A larger sign flashed:

ALL HIGH PROFILE VEHICLES
EXIT NOW

A CHiP officer was in the middle of the roadway directing all trucks, vans and campers off the highway. Another ChiP was blocking the re-entry ramp so that no one got the bright idea to make a run for it. At the top of the ramp was a small, dirt parking area with about five other trucks parked in it. I joined the group just in time, because within 30 minutes the lot was full, and trucks were jockeying for positions along the roadway itself. That filled very quickly, so trucks started parking on the exit ramp. When that filled up back to the Interstate, the ChiP started directing traffic to the north side of the Interstate and into town where parking would really be a nightmare. We even had a TV camera crew out there – “film at 11.”

The bear blocking the interstate ramp was talking to all of us through the driver of a truck at the front of the parking area. He relayed information to the rest of us over his CB radio. The first tidbit was that the winds were sustained at 50 mph, with gusts recorded at over 70. That would roll almost any truck over. They had closed the interstate after several trucks were blown over earlier that morning. He also relayed that we could leave when the cop left – not before.

We sat and blew back and forth with the wind gusts for almost three hours. Then the driver in the lead truck got on his CB. “Hang on drivers. A DOT guy just pulled up and is walking over to my truck. Be back on in a minute.”

What happened next amazed everyone, especially the Highway Patrolman.

“OK guys. The DOT man just wrote out some instructions for us. There’s a two-lane that sits down in the valley and parallels I-8. It’s the long way, but it doesn’t cross the mountain or the bridge like the interstate does, and it beats the shit out of sitting here. You’re supposed to follow me and we’re not to get back on the 8 until the directions tell us to. Make sure everybody’s awake, ‘cause we’re heading out now.”

And head out we did, single file and onto the entrance ramp. The next voice we heard over our radios was the CHiP. “Where the hell you guys on the entrance ramp going?”

The lead driver in our convoy responded. “The DOT man gave us directions around the interstate and told us we could go.” The DOT man broke in with, “That’s right. I told them to follow the two-lane and gave them directions on where to get back on the 8 where it’s safe. Any problems?”

As we pulled onto the interstate, the CHiP and the DOT official were nose-to-nose, having a rather heated discussion. I’m not sure who outranked whom, but I would like to have heard what went on after we left.

We entered the interstate, went about three miles, and got off at the next exit. The two- lane that we traveled for about 20 miles didn’t even show up in my Atlas, but it paralleled the Mexican border through some very small towns. One driver in our convoy commented, “The only reason they let us go and sent us this way was, if we blow over we won’t block their damned Interstate.”

We drove through Pine Valley, Boulevard, Buckhead Springs and Jacumba, CA on highways 80 and 94. People were actually coming out on their front lawns to watch all these big trucks go by. They probably hadn’t seen any of us down there since the Interstate was built. I can see it now – some enterprising soul seeing all these trucks going past and thinking, “Hey, maybe we could use a truck stop down here.” A Sonic Drive-in and a Wal-Mart wouldn’t be far behind.

After an hour of this adventure, we re-entered the Interstate at Ocotillo and the convoy spread out. We were still the only big trucks on the interstate in either direction, and about ten miles further east, we saw where all the westbound trucks had been stopped, still sitting and waiting.

Later,

obi

Black Friday

2007-01-05T08:09:00.000-08:00

I know we just had this nation’s flags at half mast in honor of the late Gerald Ford, but I really think they need to be dropped again. Maybe not across the entire country, but at least in the city of Pittsburgh, PA – my hometown.

Bill Cower, 15-year coach of the Pittsburgh Steelers, announced his retirement today. He led the team to 10 playoffs during his tenure as coach along with two trips to the Super Bowl. The Steelers’ fifth Super Bowl win came last February with an unspectacular win over the Seattle Seahawks.

Cower was only the second Steeler head coach in over 30 years. I was devastated when Chuck Noll left the job in the early 90’s. I thought nobody could replace him and I was wrong. Who’s next?

Will the Steelers go for an established coach or revert to the strategy that worked for them the last time – hiring an inexperienced man with excellent leadership skills to guide the team? I guess we’ll know soon enough.

Bill Cower – along with the city of Pittsburgh, I wish you the best of luck in the future and say “thank you” for the past 15 years.

Later,

obi

On the Road

2007-01-02T14:51:00.001-08:00

I drove a truck for two years, through 47 states and over 215,000 miles. And before there are any comments in reference to yesterday’s post, I never drank when I was on the road.

The money was decent and there were times I felt like I was being paid to see the country. Actually, I saw every state except South Dakota. I spent a lot of time in California, Texas, Arkansas, Oklahoma, New York and Pennsylvania.

I now have a much better sense of geography, and understand our country’s Interstate system. I should – I’ve been on most of them. When I see on the news that a major accident happened on a super highway somewhere, I know where it is. Normally, when they mention a small town in Texas, Oklahoma or Arkansas, I’ve been through it. I’ve even been to Evening Shade.

Trucking is a hard job. Sure, you’re sitting down for most of it, but there is a lot of stress involved. Most of that comes from getting lost or being late for a delivery or pickup. The hours are horrendous – 12 to 14 hours a day until you hit your maximum of 80 for the week. And that’s only if you’re honest about your log book – most truckers aren’t. There are a lot of ways to shave your hours, and truckers know all of them.

So, do me a favor – be careful around big trucks. If you’re gonna pass one – do it! Don’t get beside him then chicken out and hang there for 5 miles. Don’t ride on their asses trying to make them go faster. They probably can’t plus they can’t see you.

For the most part, truckers are still good drivers, friendly and courteous. They take their jobs seriously and know the dangers that are inherent to the industry. There are a few assholes out there, but they are the minority.

Basically, just be safe out on the highways. You really don’t want to end up under a trailer.

Later,

obi

SOS

2007-01-01T15:54:00.000-08:00

See – I told you. Ain’t nothin’ different today. Same ol’ shit as yesterday. The only thing that’s changed is the year’s last decimal. Oh yeah – and many of you may still be hung over from last night.

When I was younger I avoided going out on New Year’s Eve because I considered it amateur night. All the people who never drank picked New Year’s Eve to get loaded, normally on three drinks. Then they’d get in their cars and try to drive home.

I figured that with my luck, I’d be the one they’d hit head-on and kill. So, I stayed home. Besides, it was just another day. I had 364 other nights to go out and get drunk and the odds were better that I’d get home without another drunk killing me or getting stopped by the cops.

After I left my first wife, I went hog wild – bought a sports car and partied hardy. The car was a 5-year old MGB. Not the fastest car in the world, but it cornered well and would get up to 115. And it got up to 115 every night on my way home.

One night, or actually early one morning, I had dropped my girlfriend off at her place and headed home. When I hit the main road, I cranked it up to 65, 10 over the speed limit, and settled in. On the way to the interstate entrance the speed limit dropped from 55 to 45 then to 35. Screw it – I was on a roll and kept it at 65 all the way.

About ½ mile from the entrance ramp I saw the flashing red light behind me. I downshifted from 4th to 3rd then into 2nd and pulled onto the ramp’s shoulder. When the cop finally pulled in behind me, I already had my license and registration out. He walked up to my door, took the documents from my outstretched hand and walked back to his cruiser. Not a word was uttered.

A few minutes later he brought back my paperwork, including a speeding ticket, and started back to his car. He went about 5 steps, then turned around and came back to my door. “Wanna know how fast you were going?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“I clocked you at 62.”

Smart-ass that I am, I looked up at him and said, “My speedometer must be off – it read 65.”

He turned, walked back to his cruiser and made a U-turn to go back to his speed trap.

I got on I-81 and cranked that bitch up to 115.

Later,

obi

HFNY

2006-12-31T14:11:00.000-08:00

It’s New Year’s Eve.

BFD!

What real difference does it make what year it is? We have to change calendars. Besides that, what’s the difference between today and tomorrow? Is the first day of 2007 going to be any different than the last day of 2006?

NO!

The cost of living will increase; the war in Iraq will continue; the sun will continue to rise every morning (hopefully); babies will be born; people will die: Bush will continue to be an idiot. How does that differ from this year?

IT DOESN’T!

So, from my domain to yours –

HAPPY FUCKING NEW YEAR

Later,

obi

W's Belated Christmas Present

2006-12-30T11:06:00.000-08:00

Saddam is dead. He was executed at dawn, Iraqi time, this morning. Is the world a better
place because of it? Probably. He was a dictator, a murderer and an all-around asshole.

Are we safer, as a nation, because of it? Probably not. It’s never been proven that he posed any threat to the United States. Bush’s story about Iraq having weapons of mass destruction was no more than an excuse to go after the man who had attempted to kill his father while George the First was in office.

The real threat to this country, and the world in general, is still Osama bin Laden. Have we killed him yet? No. Have we caught him yet? No. Do we even know where he is? No.

Oh – wait a minute – we do know where he is. He’s in the mountains of Afghanistan! We’ve got him pinned down somewhere within 251,772 square miles of sand and rocks and caves.

Afghanistan is just slightly smaller than the state of Texas. Let’s turn George loose in his home state and see if 17,900 National Guardsmen can find him if he doesn’t want to be found.

We began the hunt for bin Laden shortly after 9/11/2001 – five fucking years ago. As of today we’ve killed or captured some of his top aides and advisors, but have not laid eyes on our real target. The only time we’ve seen the man is when he sends a video tape of himself screaming, “Death to all western infidels.”

You can tell from the video images that he is scared shitless – just shakin’ in his sandals.

Why the hell don’t we let the Iraqi people sort out their own civil war, pull the majority of our 133,000 troops out of their country and go after the real threat to our nation? Bush has succeeded in his plan for Afghanistan. He got rid of Saddam.

Later,

obi

WTF ?

2006-12-29T08:56:00.000-08:00

Ever wonder why you can’t afford to attend a professional sporting event? Could it be the enormity of players’ salaries?

Barry Zito, a 28-year old pitcher, has just inked a contract with the San Francisco Giants worth a cool $126 million over 7 years. Not taking into account bonuses and extensions, that comes out to $18,000,000 a season.

Let’s say, for argument sake, that he starts roughly 34 games per year. How does $529,411 per game sound? That works out to $58,823 an inning if he pitches a full 9-inning game. If that game is a no-hitter he makes $19,607 per batter struck out (about $6,535 per pitch.)

WTF people! What’s wrong with this picture?

Baseball, basketball, football and even hockey players are now becoming the nation’s newest millionaires. Sure, their careers are relatively short and they need to make as much money as they can as quickly as possible, but shit – they can find another job after sports. Sell cars – become a broadcaster – peddle insurance – whatever it takes. Instead of buying mansions and Bentleys and tons of drugs, maybe they should save some of those big bucks for later in life.

No one is worth $18 million a year just because they can throw a fucking baseball. The sooner the leagues and team owners realize this fact and start cutting salaries back to reasonable amounts, the sooner you and I can attend a professional sporting event without taking second mortgages on our homes to pay for the tickets.

Later,

obi

Well, Well, Well

2006-12-28T11:53:00.000-08:00

AHA!

My theory was correct. If you don’t write, no one will read you. Yeah – I know that sounds stupid, but it seems I’ve acquired a loyal readership. When nothing new is presented, you check back every week or so. When the tirades are constant, you read every day.

I checked my readership numbers today and was pleasantly surprised. From 13 yesterday, when there had not been a new post in almost two months, to 40 today. Not quite back up to the earlier numbers, but on the rise. I can’t ask for more than that.

My blog, MotherTrucker, is not only posted on the site you are now perusing, but on three others. They’re all the same posts, but I found that posting them on more than one venue does increase readership.

I hope y’all had a fantastic Christmas (or whatever you celebrate) and have a bang-up New Year. Remember obi’s motto: Life’s too short to drink cheap beer. Be safe – don’t drink and drive. I want all of you back in 2007.

Later,

obi

A Promise

2006-12-27T11:01:00.000-08:00

I don’t normally make New Year’s resolutions. They’re a waste of time and, simply put, just set you up for failure. In fact, I can’t remember the last resolution I made, but it was probably to quit smoking. That really worked.

But now it’s time! I hereby resolve to keep this weblog alive by posting, at the minimum, every week, and hopefully, every day.

Sure, there may be some shitty topics, but they are going to be written and posted, like it or not.

As you can tell, I just realized that it’s been almost two months since my last post. I check my reader numbers every day, and they have sorely dropped. They’ve gone from 50 or 60 a day down to about 12. I assume that most of these are regular readers who simply check in to see if this lazy fucker has written anything new.

Well, from now on – check me daily!!!! If you don’t like the crap you see, let me know. Not that it will change anything, but it’ll be nice feedback.

So, starting NOW you, dear reader, will be bombarded with posts. Gird your loins.

Later,

obi

Staying the Course Sucks

2006-10-30T12:06:00.000-08:00

I read a quote recently that caught my attention - I just can’t remember who said it.

It stated that there is a great difference between stupidity and ignorance. If someone is ignorant, it means that they just don’t know any better. The problem may never have been explained to them or maybe they just don’t understand the situation.

Stupidity, on the other hand, is trying the same solution to a problem over and over again, even though it consistently fails, hoping for a different outcome.

Which category does “Stay the Course” in Iraq most closely match? For my money, it’s stupidity. We’ve now lost 100 troops in the month of October. How many last month? Or the month before?

If it ain’t workin’ stop doing it – the results are not going to change.

Later,

A pissed off Obi

Lot Lizards

2006-10-28T12:14:00.000-07:00

The first hooker, or lot lizard as they are affectionately known, that I saw while I was driving was during my over-the-road training period. There were three of us in the truck at the time and the trainer had dumped us at a run-down truck stop in Virginia Beach while he went home for a few days.

On Saturday morning we were sitting in the truck, bored out of our minds, when an attractive female in her early thirties walked onto the lot. Dressed in a short skirt, fishnet stockings and an off-the-shoulder blouse, she made the rounds, stopping at each driver who was outside his vehicle. Being Saturday morning, early, she didn’t appear to get any takers.

On one of my first solo runs, I stopped overnight at a truck stop in Texarkana, Arkansas off I-30. I hadn’t been parked for 5 minutes when a nice looking black young woman knocked on my driver-side door. “Hi. My name’s Bunny,” she said. “Looking for some company?” I declined, but every time I saw her that evening she was climbing into or out of someone’s truck.

While sitting in a truck stop in West Memphis, Arkansas, I saw two hookers trolling the lot. One was tall and skinny, the other shorter and rather hefty. Micro, micro mini-skirts and very high heels were the uniform of the day. In fact, I could see the skinny one’s ass as they walked through the parking lot.

In Oklahoma City, I had my CB radio turned on while I finished up my paperwork when the following conversation came over my radio.
“Any of you drivers looking for
some commercial company, bring
it back to ‘Hollywood’ on channel 17.”
What the hell – I’d flip to 17 and see what she was offering.
“Anybody make it to 17?”
“Yeah – this Hollywood?” another driver asked.
“It sure is, sugar – what you need?”
“How much for a blowjob?”
“Now sweetheart; you know I can’t tell
you that over the CB.”
“OK – then what can I get for $10?”
“A good look at my ass as I walk away.”
Everyone had a good laugh over that. I turned the radio off and went to sleep.

But the topper was at a very small truck stop in Delmar, Virginia on Highway 13 near the Maryland State Line. I had arrived at about 11 pm, hit the men’s room then went back to my truck and crashed. It had been a long day.

About 11:30 there was a loud “BANG-BANG-BANG” on the side of my truck.

“Go Away,” I yelled.
“BANG-BANG-BANG” again.

I slid out of the bunk, opened my curtains and looked out my window. Outside, smiling up at me, was a young woman. There was another of our company’s trucks parked next to mine, and she looked like she could have been the driver – she was dressed in
jeans and a sweater. I rolled down the window thinking she might need some help with her truck.

“Sleepin’ hard driver?”, she said

“I was,” I answered.

“Would you like some company?”

Given her appearance, the size of the truck stop and the area we were in, I was really surprised. I would have expected it in W. Memphis or any of a dozen other truck stops I’d been in. Plus, she was dressed like a regular person, not in the provocative type clothing favored by most of the truck stop hookers I’d seen.

“Not tonight, sweetheart,” I said, and started to roll up my window.

“Oh, come on now, driver,” she replied. “I’m not a cop – look!”
With that, she proved that she was not an undercover cop on a sting assignment. She pulled the sweater up to her chin, revealing a pert, young set of naked breasts. All of a
sudden I was face-to-face – or rather nose-to-nipple – with the bared chest of the person who had just woke me up.

“No, thanks, darlin’ – I’m too tired,” I stammered. Then she was off to the next truck, presumably to perform her little strip-tease one more time. I was too tired to see if she got any takers. I hit the bed again – alone.

Almost every truck stop has its lot lizards – some more brazen than others. The cops try to keep them out; the truck stop managers try to keep them out (if they’re not getting a cut of the action); but they’re always around. If you don’t mind going home with the gift that keeps on giving (an STD or worse) they could be an option. I guess I’m just too much of a chicken-shit.

Later,

obi

Go %*#@ Yourself

2006-10-15T09:28:00.000-07:00

Barbara and I went to see George Carlin Thursday night at the Thomas Wolfe Auditorium here in Asheville. He’s still funny; he’s still irreverent; he’s still nasty as hell; but God is he getting old.

We saw him in the early 70’s at a big old theater in New Brunswick, NJ. That’s when his signature routine was “The Seven Words You Can’t Say on TV.” I think I remember all 7 of them, but now they can all be heard nightly on cable pay stations. Hell, regular cable stations like FX broadcast many of them.

That’s when Carlin would pace the stage like a caged tiger – back and forth from wing to wing - cussing and ranting. He still rants and cusses, mainly about the same subjects – religion and the government. But now, instead of pacing, he stands beside a table and reads from notes that are stacked on it. Much of the time it seems like he’s reading his jokes for the first time.

He reminded me of the new reporters on WLOS. You know they’re reading from a tele-prompter, but it’s like they’ve never seen the words before.

Before he came onstage, a disembodied voice announced that three new T-shirts were on sale in the lobby. One was covered in over 200 obscenities, one proclaimed “Jesus is Coming – Look Busy” and the third read “Simon Says Go Fuck Yourself.” Classic Carlin.

But I must say that I enjoyed the show. The presentation may have been lacking, but the material is still current and hilarious.

Carlin is a classic.

Later,

obi

Forgive Me, Father

2006-10-12T10:02:00.000-07:00

I know – it’s been almost a month since my last post. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned by omission. To be honest, I just haven’t felt like it.

I have finished another short story in the Ron Gabriel series – that makes 3 now – but nothing has really caught my fancy in the way of postings. So here’s a little catch-up on what’s been happening.

The one-year contract with my literary agent expired at the beginning of October. A full year and the fucking book was not picked up by a publisher. Shit! I e-mailed him yesterday and asked, “What now?” The answer was, “You’re free to find another agent – good luck.” Thanks for nothin’, Lantz.

The holes in my head are healing. The stitches came out yesterday, but my forehead still looks like someone has been poking me with large nail. Yeah, it’s really attractive. Every so often I can feel something above my left eye. When I check in the mirror I see that a slightly yellowish-brown fluid is oozing out of the holes and running down my face. Probably my brains leaking out. Cool.

And now we have a new pet. Barbara came in from running errands the other day and I noticed a leaf in her hair. When I brushed it off her head it stuck to my hand, then started moving. Not a leaf, but a brightly colored spider. It’s been hanging around, literally, since then.

It has a beautiful red head with that color continuing ¾ of the way down its legs. From there, the legs are bands of black and white. Behind its head, the body is yellow and black in a geometric block pattern with a yellow arrow pointing forward. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. It looks like it should be in the Amazon rain forest, not the mountains of Western North Carolina. I’m attempting to post a picture of it here, but so far no luck.

If I don’t publish any more posts you’ll know it was deadly and got to us in our sleep.

Later (hopefully),

obi

Feelings - Very Special Feelings

2006-09-16T06:29:00.000-07:00

I’ve had this spot on my forehead for several years – sort of like a wart or a callous. I never really gave a lot of thought to it until my accident last April (post of April 11, 2006 – Fear of Flying.) Because of the broken cheek-bone, I was referred to a plastic surgeon.

He felt my cheek, said, “I don’t think there’s a problem with that – it’s still well aligned and should heal by itself, but you better have that lump on your forehead removed.” I explained that my Medicare didn’t activate until May 1, and that I’d be back in touch with him.

“It’s a simple procedure,” he said. I swear I heard him say that it would take 30 minutes under local anesthetic and could be done in his office.

I called for an appointment last week, and was told to come in to his office on Monday, Sept. 11 for an examination. Surgery was scheduled for Wednesday the 13th.

On Monday he examined me from head to toe and found two more suspicious growths – one on my shoulder and one on my right breast. The shoulder spot was about the size of the plunger you push on a ball-point pen. The one on my breast was the size of the head on a straight pin. “Those need to come off too,” he informed me.

As it turned out, the procedure was performed at our local Surgery Center, took two hours and was under local anesthetic and what they referred to as “twilight sleep.” That’s the technical term for giving you something intravenously that keeps you awake, but also makes it so you don’t give a shit even if they castrate you.

Wednesday night I was one sore puppy. I never felt the incisions on my shoulder or breast, but that motherfucker on my forehead was a real bitch. The stitches cover ¾ of the width of my forehead, and draw the skin together very tightly over where the spot was. My forehead has lumps all over it from the bunching of skin and swelling, and it hurt like hell. The pain medication that was recommended was – Tylenol! That’s all.

Luckily Barbara had some Vicodin. I took those and they just barely took the edge off the pain. After two virtually sleepless nights, I returned to the surgeon’s office on Friday. After he examined the stitches, I told him of the pain and the fact that Vicodin was not even working. He prescribed a muscle relaxer, because he had separated a nerve under the spot and had pulled on my forehead very hard to get everything closed up.

The good news is that the forehead and shoulder spots were basil-skin spots – nothing to worry about. The tiny spot on my breast was pre-melanoma, and completely removed.

The bad news is that because of the nerve he had to sever, I have no feeling along my hair-line. That coupled with the nerve damage and resulting loss of feeling in my damaged elbow and broken cheek-bone means that I’m slowly losing the sensation of touch in too many parts of my body.

I assume that I’ll fall on my ass next and not be able tell if I’m sitting down.

Later,

obi

Groovy

2006-08-25T09:34:00.000-07:00

Asheville has garnered yet another distinction from the national media. The Princeton Revue Book, “Best 361 Colleges,” has rated one of our local colleges, Warren Wilson in Swannanoa, NUMBER ONE nationally for marijuana use.

What a distinction. Maybe that’s one reason why we garnered the NUMBER ONE spot in North Carolina for DWI accidents last week.

Warren Wilson has always been kind of a strange place. Not for Asheville, but just generally. It’s filled with hippie throwbacks. After all, Asheville is famous regionally for the number of hippies we have. Most nights during the spring and summer months, scores of them would congregate near the fountain at Pack Square in downtown Asheville. Probably getting their only shower for the week.

Warren Wilson also got on other lists in Princeton’s Revue. They were also NUMBER ONE in the category of “Students most nostalgic for Bill Clinton.”

They ranked NUMBER THREE for “Birkenstock-wearing, tree hugging, clove-smoking vegetarians. A college in California probably beat them in that category. They also ranked NUMBER 14 for most beautiful campus and 15th for most politically active.

Wow! An 800-student campus in the middle of the North Carolina Mountains gets FIVE rankings above #15 from the Princeton Revue.

Outta sight.

Later man,

obi

We're Number One !!!

2006-08-21T09:23:00.000-07:00

Asheville, North Carolina has received two high ranking scores in the past few days – one state and one national, and boy are we proud. We actually got a number one ranking in the state.

Forbes Magazine and Forbes.com ranked the state #3 in the nation for business. That’s pretty good, although I don’t really know what that means. Are we #3 in the amount of business we do? Are we #3 in the number of businesses we have? Are we #3 in business incentives? Are we #3 in the number of new businesses?

Beyond that, Asheville was ranked 24th in the country “for business.” Same questions – what the fuck does that mean? All the local TV station said was that North Carolina was #3 and Asheville was #24 “for business.” I guess that’s good.

But the big prize comes in another category – DWI accidents. For those of you who don’t know what a DWI is – it’s the same as a DUI in other locales (Driving Under the Influence/Driving While Intoxicated).

Buncombe County, North Carolina, which includes Asheville, was #1 in the state for alcohol related traffic mishaps last summer. We had 68. One third of the people involved were repeat offenders with one local man racking up an impressive 7 DWI’s. That takes fortitude.

The only good thing about this situation was that, miraculously, there were no deaths related to the 68 wrecks.

But, hey, I don’t want to spoil this high we’re on. After all –

WE’RE NUMBER 1

Later (if I’m not hit by a drunk driver),

obi

Why Can't I Get Published?

2006-08-14T13:57:00.000-07:00

It seems there’s an underwhelming lack of interest in my memoir, MotherTrucker which my agent has had for nearly a year now. Every time I contact him about progress, there doesn’t seem to be any.

The book chronicles my two years as an over-the-road truck driver. In the course of 23 months I visited 47 states (the only one I missed was South Dakota) and racked up over 200,000 miles.

As a new driver, I had my share of misadventures. Getting lost in LA, getting lost in Laredo, getting lost in Chicago – hell, getting lost in 23 states. Some of the stories are funny and some of them aren’t but they are all interesting and absolutely true.

But, nobody in the publishing field seems to give a shit. So, I decided to get into fiction and short stories seem to be my preference.

One story is complete, but I’d like to have 3 or 4 in the can before I begin begging someone to print them. The second installment is started, but dragging a bit.

I’m working all of them around one central character, a truck driver. Each story will chronicle one trip across the country and describe the people he meets and the shit he sees.

The completed story follows my intrepid hero, Ron Gabriel or “Gabe” on a trip from Winslow, Arizona and ends when he gets into some deep do-do in North Carolina’s infamous I-40 gorge. It’s an exiting piece, filled with adventure, companionship and humor.

Yeah – “They laughed, they cried they conquered 2000 miles of harrowing Interstate.” Actually, this should be read in that basso profundo movie preview guy voice.

So, if anybody knows of a place to publish these stories let me know. My agent doesn’t want to do short stories, so he just told me to, “Get them published – anywhere.” Thanks.

Later,

obi

I Am Pissed!

2006-08-02T12:34:00.000-07:00

I was under the impression that, even when Native Americans did it, scalping was illegal. I guess I was wrong.

Tom Waits is appearing in Asheville tonight, and tickets went on sale Friday, July 14. Huge fan that I am, I immediately went on line to purchase two tickets, face value of around $75 each.

This can’t be right. There are no tickets available. I tried again. Same answer.

SHIT! Waits will never play Asheville again. This is like if the Beatles were stranded in Western North Carolina in 1966, they might have played our Civic Center just for something to do.

For my own information, I Googled “Tom Waits Tickets.” Sure enough, five different on-line ticket vendors had seats available – from $250 to $500 each.

Is that not scalping? I realize they’re not standing outside the venue hawking their wares, but is that not the same thing? They buy up all the available tickets then jack up the prices so that the average person can’t afford them.

My understanding of scalping is selling show tickets for more than face their value. Four times list price certainly qualifies.

Later (when I cool down),

obi

Hooterama

2006-08-01T13:47:00.000-07:00

Asheville holds a street festival every year on the last weekend of July. It’s called Bele Chere and means beautiful something. Ask 10 people what it actually means and you’ll get 7 different answers, four of them being, “I don’t know.”

Supposedly, it’s the largest gathering of its type in the southeast, drawing an estimated 300,000 people between Friday night and early Sunday evening. Music, crafts and food are the attractions, and all the streets in central Asheville are closed for the duration.

The first few years of the festival, Barbara and I avoided downtown like the plague. In fact, several years we left town altogether, just to avoid the mayhem.

Then I discovered that during Bele Chere you can actually walk the streets of Asheville with an open beer in your hand. That was the beginning of our annual trips downtown to see the sights.

Actually, music alone is a good enough reason to make the trek. This year the featured performers were Gov’t Mule (Warren Haynes is from Asheville), Train, Galactic, and Shooter Jennings, Waylon’s kid. There was also a slew of bands from New Orleans. Last year the headliner was Blues Traveler, so it’s not all local-yokel entertainment.

In years past, our favorite pastime (besides the beer) was divided between belly watching and same-sex couple watching. Bellies have always been big in Asheville and “alternative lifestyles” are now becoming commonplace.

This year there was a brand new sight to behold – augmented bosoms. Yep, fake tits are taking over the city, and these are the kind that you can’t mistake. They’re bigguns.

Added to the fact that they’re soooo large is the fact that these broads are really proud of their new acquisitions. They just love showing off as much of their new hooters as the law allows.

This is still the south, so there was no blatant flashing, but those puppies were encased in as little fabric as possible.

Wahoo!!! Sure beats watching some redneck’s beer-gut.

Later,

obi

Road Food

2006-07-20T13:34:00.000-07:00

Food on the road is always an adventure. At most chain-run truck stops the fare is the same no matter where you are in the country. It’s highly unlikely that you’ll get seafood gumbo at a Flying J in Louisiana or Yankee pot roast in a Maine Truck Stops of America.

Wherever possible, I tried to stop at small, locally owned truck stops. The service was better and the menus were more varied than at the national chains. Sometimes the food was good.

On a trip to Fargo, North Dakota I parked at a little stop with a dirt parking lot and a diner next door. This was in Rothsay, Minnesota, the Prairie Chicken Capitol of the World.

I’d never seen a prairie chicken before. In fact, I thought they were the figment of someone’s fertile imagination –like Sasquatch. On the giant mural located in the Rothsay Diner, they looked like a cross between a chicken and a rabbit – no shit! They have two tufts of feathers or fur on their heads that look like rabbit ears. From what I saw on the painting, their heads and faces are shaped like a rabbit’s. I looked long and hard, but I never did see any sort of beak.

I ordered beef stew for dinner and got another surprise. It came on top of mashed potatoes – not with mashed potatoes and was the most tasteless meal I had ever eaten outside of a hospital. The meat, the potatoes, and the vegetables all tasted the same – like cardboard. I could taste the salt and pepper that I added, so I knew it wasn’t that my taste buds had suddenly stopped working.

On the other end of the taste bud scale was a small truck stop in Greeley, Colorado. I was waiting for a load of meat from a packing plant, and like every meat load I ever had, it was not ready at the scheduled time.

I found a small truck stop about a mile away and had dinner. I’m a sucker for pot roast, but a good one is hard to find on the road.

When my order came, I stared in disbelief. Mashed potatoes were surrounded by large chunks of meat and vegetables. Good looks do not always mean good taste, but these did.

The potatoes were home made, not that instant shit restaurants normally serve. The meat was tender enough to cut with a fork. The vegetables were done to perfection and the gravy was delicious. I almost asked for another serving, but the portion was huge.

So, to any of you future kings of the road out there, eat at chain stops if that’s all there are, but stay on the lookout for the small, independent joints. You won’t regret it.

Later,

obi

You Got One Too?

2006-07-11T10:38:00.000-07:00

My ex-boss James (James and the Sky Bars – Dec. 31, 2005) spoke on the phone last night. Most of our communications are by email, but it was time for a voice-to-voice conversation. After the normal catching up bullshit, the conversation turned, as it always seems to, to my book – MOTHER*UCKER.

I told him that my agent has it, but the process is stalled at that point. I contacted Lance (the agent) a month or so ago and he told me that he would check on it’s progress. Of course, I never heard back from him. I guess it’s time to contact him again – squeaky wheel and all that bullshit.

But I digress. James suggested another avenue for my creative talents.

As loyal readers of my posts know, I had a “freak” accident in November, 2003 that ended my driving career and, along with other ailments, put me on disability. For any of you not familiar with this occurrence, I wrote about it in depth in my post of October 5, 2005, “Freaky.”

James suggested that I ask any of you readers if you’ve had a similar accident. Something out of left field. Something freaky that’s happened. Maybe even something that’s changed your life.

If so, I’d like to hear about it. Email your story and contact information to me at:
KENEBARB@AOL.COM
Please put MOTHERTRUCKER in your subject line, because I ain’t stupid. I won’t open shit that doesn’t have a familiar email address.

Maybe I can work a series of short stories or essays out of these, and we’ll all be famous. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.

I’m looking forward to hearing from you.

Later,

obi

WEIRD SHIT

2006-07-10T13:31:00.000-07:00

I drove a tractor-trailer for two years. In that time I covered over 215,000 miles, visited 47 of the lower 48 states (plus Canada) and I saw some seriously weird shit.

In Longmont, Colorado, I saw people living in half of a mobile home. I guess they couldn’t afford the entire double-wide all at one time. The roof just went up to the peak and the rear wall came straight down. It looked like a lean-to. I can see it now, “Yeah, I’ll take the living room, kitchen, one bedroom and a bath for now, and could you put the rest on layaway?”

Along the Interstate in Central Kansas there are small oil wells dotting the landscape. In front of one particular grouping of these structures was a sign that read:
“BUY YOUR OWN OIL WELL
SMALL LOTS AVAILABLE
CALL 1-800-555-1212
DRY HOLE ENTERPRISES”
Why did I not run for a telephone?

There was one entrepreneur in Kansas who had signs for miles advertising his establishment. His claim to fame was ownership of not only “the world’s largest prairie dog,” but also either a five-legged or six-legged cow. The number of legs depended on which of his 50 signs you believe.

To the east of San Antonio, Texas on I-10, you cross Woman Hollering Creek. Where the hell do they get some of these names? I’m sure there’s a great story behind that one.

In Kent, Ohio, there’s a house with a gate but no fence. Just a gate sitting in front of the steps leading to the front yard. If you don’t believe me, it’s on Mantua Street.

I noticed a church even I might not mind attending on a regular basis. It’s in Indiana and named the Bourbon Baptist Church. Gives communion a whole new perspective, doesn’t it?

Just outside Houston on I-10, there’s a river with two names. According to the sign it’s the Old River and the Lost River. It may be old, but it sure ain’t lost. Hell, you can see it from the Interstate.

Near Wilson, Kansas (the Czech capitol of Kansas) there’s something that will arouse the interest of biblical scholars. It seems the Garden of Eden has been found and is living there.

In Mississippi there’s a park named – honest to God – Toad Suck State Park.

Ever been to Buck Snort, Tennessee?

On I-25 north of Denver, Colorado, there’s a stock car track that has some interesting neighbors. There are working oil wells between the track and the highway and next door sits a junk yard. I assume they refine their fuel from the wells, and after the night’s slammin’ and bangin’ it’s a short trip to the junkyard.

There’s a statue of Abraham Lincoln at the summit of Sherman’s Pass on I-80 in Wyoming. Why not a statue of General Sherman in Lincoln, Nebraska?

Believe me, there are more to come.

Later,

obi

CB RADIOS

2006-07-07T08:58:00.000-07:00

I always believed that CB radios were just toys for rednecks. While I was in driver training I thought that a CB was the last thing I wanted in my truck. Once on the road, however, I quickly learned that they are a vital piece of equipment for every over-the-road driver.

Another driver using a CB can warn you of an accident or traffic tie-up ahead. In those events you can find out which lanes (if any) are open. CB’s also have weather bands that warn you of impending bad weather that you may be approaching. These come on automatically if there’s an emergency announcement.

A CB is also great if you’re lost. I can’t count the times I got accurate directions from other truckers when I had no idea where the hell I was. It was amazing that I got accurate directions every time. Amazing because there are a high percentage of assholes out there driving trucks.

The most common messages heard on a CB are “Smokey Alerts,” warnings of cops ahead. “There’s a bear at the southbound 110. Looks like he’s checkin’ velocities.” That’s when you kill your cruise control and get it down to the speed limit fast.
Of course, there’s a lot of just plain bullshit that comes over the airwaves too.

There are always the idiots who open their microphones and burp, fart, sing, scream or just hold the open mic next to their blaring radios. The response is usually swift and always to the point – “When the hell are they gonna start making you pass an I.Q. test before you can buy a CB?”

Just for the hell of it, here are a few of the better comments I heard while driving.

Coming through eastern Indiana, I heard the following dialogue:
“Anybody know how far to the Ohio state line?”
“You’re close driver.”
“Yeah, I know I’m close asshole, but you got
anything better than that?”
“Sure, smart ass. You’re real close.”

Coming through West Virginia very early one morning, this one hit me between the eyes and woke me up:
“OK, drivers. Don’t take 64 west. Some poor soul lost the wheels off his trailer, and they say it’s gonna close exit 1 for most of the day.” “Most of the day? It don’t take that long to put a trailer back up on its tandems.”
“Yeah, but you forget - you’re in West-by-God-Virginia. Everything takes longer here.”“WHAT’S WRONG WITH WEST VIRGINIA?”
“Let’s just put it this way driver - the best thing that ever came out of West Virginia was I-77.”

There’s a device that some drivers put on their CB’s that makes a “beep” every time they release their microphone button. Drivers call it a “roger beep” and it’s supposed to let people know that you are finished talking. It’s annoying as hell, and I guess I’m not the only person that it bothers. After one particularly long CB conversation filled with “beeps”, another driver asked:

“Hey driver. Where’d you get that roger beep. You a wannabe ‘JB’ driver?”
“No, if I wanted to be a JB driver I’d be in one of them ugly yellow cabovers right now. I got the roger beep just to piss you off.” BEEP...BEEP...BEEP

Two drivers were discussing how many hours they had each been working lately and how little time they had at home when a third driver chimed in:

“Keep working real hard, drivers. There’s a whole lot of people out there on welfare countin’ on you.”

Many drivers sing over their CB’s, mainly at night and primarily to keep themselves awake. Most of them suck. One night coming through Kentucky, a driver started singing the Elvis song, “Are You Lonesome Tonight,” and he really didn’t have a bad voice. When he got to the line “is your heart filled with pain?” another driver cut in with:
“No driver, but my ears are startin’ to bleed.”

Coming through Council Bluffs, Iowa on a Saturday afternoon in June, I started hearing reports of a young lady on a bicycle. Sure enough, about three miles later, there she was, riding on the shoulder of I-80 in what could be called “skimpy” attire. One driver got on his radio:
“Y’know, what she’s doin’ is illegal.”
“What – ridin’ a bike on the interstate?”
“Nope....peddlin’ her ass all over town.”

On a trip from Montezuma, Georgia to Atlanta, there was a traffic backup on I-75. One frustrated driver exclaimed:
“What the fuck is the holdup? It’s only 2:30 in the afternoon.”
Interjection from a second, anonymous driver:
“Too many assholes and not enough asphalt.”

One trucker tooling down the highway at about 70 mph, noticed something hanging from the rear bumper of another truck, and warned the other driver:
“Driver – you got something hanging from your trailer’s bumper. Looks like a tie-down strap or something.”
To which he got the reply:
“Thanks, bud. Just an old dog leash. OH SHIT! Is the dog still there?”

On my way down I-65 through Virginia, I overheard a conversation concerning sports. Three or four drivers were participating, and I just listened:
“Who won the race on Sunday?”
“What – the NASCAR race? Never watch it. All NASCAR is is a bunch of rednecks chasin’ a faggot in circles.” (an obvious reference to one of the younger and better drivers on the circuit.)
“So, you don’t like sports?”
“I love football. Great excuse to crack open a six-pack, park my ass in front of the TV all day Sunday and not have to do anything around the house. Problem is, my wife’s a football nut too, so nothin’ gets done on Sundays.”
“My wife and I are into more physically active Sunday afternoons.”
“Like what? She beats the shit out of you then drinks your beer and takes your paycheck?”
“Every Sunday, driver.”

On I-65, again, this time in Kentucky just south of Louisville, traffic was at a standstill because of the inevitable construction. One driver had this comment:
“Will the person who called in for this cluster-fuck please report to the interstate. Your order is ready.”

On a journey through Alabama, I heard two drivers discussing the difficulties associated with quitting the smoking habit:
“Man, I gotta stop smokin’ cigarettes. I can’t stop coughin’.”
“Try sunflower seeds, driver. They worked for me.”
“OK. But aren’t they awful hard to light?”

Pulling into a truck stop near Gary, Indiana at about midnight, I heard the following lament:
“Damn – they never told me I had to back this bitch up!”

A fight broke out – over the radio, of course –concerning a musical selection. When one driver played “Dixie” over his CB in Indiana, the Civil War was resurrected. It started with geographic slurs – “You fucking hillbilly/you God Damned Yankee” – escalated into a verbal food fight concerning the relative merits of grits VS breakfast potatoes and Polish sausage VS ‘possum. The last line that I heard, apparently from the northern driver was:
“How’s it work when you get a divorce down South. Are you still considered brother and sister?”

Just outside Little Rock, Arkansas on I-40, I heard a driver ask where in the hell he was. He concluded with:
“I think I’m between lost and found right now.”

Enough for now.

Later,

obi

Alberto Who?

2006-06-14T13:29:00.000-07:00

Tropical Storm Alberto was due to hit the Florida coast yesterday, and it dominated our local weather forecast. We’re close enough here in Western North Carolina, that Storms in the Gulf of Mexico can effect our weather. Some places near here are still cleaning up from hurricanes in September, 2004.

The morning weatherman on our local channel is not a meteorologist. He’s a man about my age who has lived in these mountains all his life and has been a local TV personality forever.

His primary job at the station is to do outdoor reports every Friday at the end of the 6 o’clock newscast, and they are quite interesting. He hikes to area waterfalls, goes fly fishing in local streams and highlights the region’s natural beauty.

Yesterday morning however, he fucked up! He showed the weather map that featured the entire southeast, with that big, red storm symbol floating near Florida’s west coast. He must have been thinking about lunch at his favorite Italian restaurant, because when he began talking about the storm, he hesitated.

“Tropical Storm…uh…Alfredo is moving toward Florida this morning,” he stammered. He continued with the forecast as if nothing had happened, but we knew that he knew what he had done. He never corrected his mistake, or even mentioned it again.

This morning when he talked about Alberto crossing Florida, he simply referred to it as “that tropical storm.”

Way to go Bob.

Later,

obi

Laredo II

2006-06-12T09:15:00.000-07:00

Ah, yes. Laredo, Texas – the Garden Spot of absolutely nowhere. Laredo sits on the Mexican/US border. Not near the border – on the border. In fact, one wrong turn in Laredo, Texas and you’re on the International Bridge heading for Nuevo Laredo, Mexico.

I’ve never been across the border, but other drivers have related their experiences. Nuevo Laredo features a section of the city called Boy’s Town. It’s nothing like Father Flannigan’s version. This one is all bars, strip clubs and hookers. Yeah, it’s a cultural center.

My first trainer, Tony, told me a story about his first trip to Laredo, TX. Quite naturally, he got lost. He went to a convenience store to ask directions, but the clerk spoke no English. A younger man came out of the store’s back room and, in excellent English, gave Tony directions to his drop.

As Tony thanked him and headed for the door, the younger man said, “Next time speak Spanish.”

Tony’s classic reply was, “When did they move the fucking river?”
I never got out of Laredo in less than 2 days. The worst was a 4 day wait during which I sat and observed my surroundings – a dusty parking lot filled with empty trucks waiting for loads.

I watched an empty Styrofoam coffee cup blow across the parking lot. Because of its tapered shape, and the fact that one end is open, the path it took across the gravel was a sight to behold. It flipped, pirouetted, spun and scooted as the wind and air currents caught first one end, then the other.

At times it would be sideways to the wind, so that it’s tapered shape caused it to spin in circles. Because of the unpredictable nature of wind, the cup would start and stop at irregular intervals, reminding me of a bird scurrying across the lot looking for food.

This diversion continued for about 15 minutes. Then, during one of the lulls in wind power, the cup stopped and was crushed by a passing truck. Now that it was flattened and had no sides to act as sails, the once dancing and whirling dervish was inert. It was just another piece of trash on the landscape of life.

Yeah, that’s how bored I was.

More to come on Laredo.

Later,

obi

"W" is a Dunce

2006-06-09T17:32:00.000-07:00

Did anyone else notice this?

When “W” held his press conference yesterday morning to announce that Abu Musab al-Zarqawi had been killed, he never mentioned al-Zarqawi’s first two names?

Knowing Bush, I’m sure that he could not pronounce either one of them. But the thing that confirmed to me the fact that he is a complete idiot is that when he referred to al-Zarqawi, he made it sound like he thought his first name was Al.

You know – like Al Gore.

And this man is leader of the “free” world?

Later,

obi

Laredo I

2006-06-02T10:40:00.000-07:00

Laredo, Texas, has to be one of the most fucked up places I was ever sent as a truck driver. And I was there a lot.

My initial trip to Laredo was with my first trainer, Tony. We dropped a load going to Mexico, and then sat at our terminal there for about 3 days. I was to discover that this was not an unusual occurrence. It seems, even with NAFTA, that there is more freight going into Mexico than there is coming out.

We never delivered across the border. We would drop international loads at our drop yard and Mexican drivers picked up and delivered them. They also brought freight out of Mexico, dropped them at our yard and we took them north.

Occasionally, we would get deliveries to brokers in Laredo. The load would be delivered to their warehouse in town and they would handle breaking it down and shipping it across the border.

On one such load, I was given a street address in Laredo, along with instructions to be there at 8 am. I spent the night before the drop at our Laredo yard and headed out at 7 o’clock for the 15 minute drive to their location.
At 7:45, I was still looking for their address and the name of the company. There were no street numbers and all the company names were in Spanish. I eventually found a local who was bilingual and located the right warehouse. Of course the damn gate was still locked.

I messaged my dispatcher with the news that it was 8:30, my delivery was scheduled for 8, and there was no one home. His reply was simply, “Remember where you are.” It reminded me of a line from an old Tom Waites song – “No one speaks English and everything’s broken.”

At about 9:15 two men arrived, opened the gate, told me where to drop my trailer and pointed me toward the office. Of course, it was empty.

Around 9:45, a woman parked in the yard and entered the office. I followed her in with my paperwork. “Oh, no – not me,” she said. Pointing at another office she said in broken English, “Down there. They be in about 10.”

So, by 10:30 I had my paperwork signed and was on my way to our drop yard, hoping to get a load going north.

More on Laredo soon. It’s a treasure-trove of stories.

Later,

obi

Not Just Sitting

2006-06-01T09:38:00.000-07:00

I’ve been reading a lot lately, because it’s hard to do many things around the house with a left elbow that doesn’t work well and a broken right wrist. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t just sit.

I’m in charge of making the bed every morning, washing dishes, walking the dog twice a day, cooking dinner several times a week and other “light-duty” household chores. We had new vinyl installed in one of our bathrooms last week and I attempted to put in the trim myself; cutting baseboard and quarter-round to finish it off. That turned out less than perfect. Maybe next week.

But, I can still read.

My taste in literature normally runs toward Elmore Leonard, Robert B. Parker and Jonathan Kellerman. I’ve read all of Parker and Kellerman’s books except for the most recent, and those are still harder than hell to get at the library. I’ve also read everything our local library has by Leonard. What to do, what to do? I expanded my horizons.

Recently I was surfing around on TV, and saw a movie listed that looked interesting. It was adapted from a John Grisham novel about an inexperienced young southern lawyer faced with the daunting task of defending a black man accused of murder. To top it all off, there were witnesses to the act, and he actually admitted doing it. It was a very good film and I decided to search the library stacks for more of his work. I’ve now read several, and have yet to be disappointed.

I visited my daughter about a month ago and during the day while she and her husband were at work I scanned their book shelves for something interesting to read. What I came up with was a Tom Clancey novel called Debt of Honor. It envisiones a war with Japan; an economic conflict that escalates into limited physical battles.

The son-of-a-bitch was 990 fucking pages long. The first 300 or so pages taught me everything I needed to know about Wall Street and the intricacies of stock trading, this country’s State Department, and the operation of our military branches. I hate to admit it, but I started reading the first sentence of each paragraph and skipping the rest. While it did contribute to the story-line, it was boring as hell.

At about page 350, the pace started to pick up. To make a very long story short, I finished the book today – and what a fucking ending!

The book was first published in 1994, and ends with a 747 jet being flown into the Capitol Building in Washington. Shades of 9/11, but written a full 7 years before that horrendous event.

Is Clancey clairvoyant?

Later,

obi

The Incredible Talking Dick

2006-05-30T14:24:00.000-07:00

I can pinpoint where my life began its downward spiral. It was my third year of college at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh, PA. That’s when I discovered that beer tasted great and that my dick could talk.

It started innocently enough; going to the local watering hole during a two-hour break in classes. We’d hit Frank and Wally’s at noon then head back up for a 2 o’clock class. The following semester it graduated to hitting F & W’s at noon and saying, “Fuck the 2 o’clock, let’s spend the afternoon here.”

And the more I drank, the better the coeds looked.

From there it progressed to hitting the bar at 9 a.m. and spending the day at least twice a week. Where were we getting the money for all this alcohol you ask? I’m really dating myself, but at that time we could get a shot and a beer for 50 cents. Try that now.

The first time we walked in that early in the morning Henry, the seven-fingered bartender, said, “You guys ain’t gonna start drinkin’ now, are ya?”

“Shit no, Henry,” we answered. “We just need some coffee.” But after one cup of Joe, it was straight to the Iron City and Windsor Canadian.

Yep. More booze equaled better looking chicks. And my dick just kept saying, “Look at ‘em, man. You can do it – you can do it – you can do it!

So, I flunked out of college, but not after getting my girlfriend, a devout Catholic, pregnant. That slowed my drinking down drastically and stopped that infernal talking for a while.

We got married, and settled down in her hometown of Rome, NY. Since I had been a broadcast journalism major, I got a job at a nearby radio station in Utica as a full-time salesman and weekend disc jockey. When a full-time DJ position opened up at their sister station in Geneva, NY, I jumped at the opportunity and we made the move west.

After a second kid, a couple of affairs and moves to Niagara Falls and Binghamton, NY, the drinking and the incessant talking dick started again. The marriage fell apart. Actually, I pried it apart.

Now, married a second time for 30+ years, all is quiet.

Time for a beer.

Later,

obi

Let's Hit the Road

2006-05-18T09:08:00.000-07:00

Have you ever thought about driving a truck professionally? Let me give you a little taste of what it may entail. Having a valid driver’s license is a good start.

First, you need to pick a driving school. There are two very different flavors.

The first is an independent school where you pay for your training. They are expensive, but will finance your tuition. At the end of your instruction they offer a placement service; not guaranteeing you a job, but helping you to locate one.

A subcategory of the pay-to-learn school would be a community college program. These are less expensive, but generally require more time; either a semester, a trimester or a quarter to complete your course. In each of these choices, the end result is simply getting your Class-A license (CDL).

The other alternative is going to work for an established trucking company that offers a driving school. That was the option I selected. You still pay for your training, but will be able to work off your tuition. At the end of the session, generally 2 to 4 weeks, you will have your CDL and then begin the real training program.

Any company that hires someone straight out of driver’s school will require them to complete “over-the-road training.” The student will be placed in a working truck with an experienced driver and drive a certain number of miles with him. My secondary training was set at 25,000 miles. It sounds like a lot and it is; it took about 2 ½ months to complete.

During this phase, the student learns the real inner workings of the job. They will experience, first-hand, the joys of traffic jams, detours, shitty directions, bitchy loading dock workers and waiting for a load. Oh, yeah – if you have an accident or get a ticket during training, you’re fired.

At the end of training, the new driver is tested in the classroom and on the road. If that part of the training is not passed successfully, it’s back out on the road with a different trainer. Either that or they get fired.

Trucking companies are not shy about terminating a driver. They can’t afford to be. It’s a dangerous job to start with, and a driver who can’t learn the proper procedures is definitely a liability.

If a driver is fired it happens either at the company’s headquarters or on the spot of the infraction that caused it. That could be 2000 miles from home, and the unfortunate soul who has been let go better have money in their jeans for bus fare.

The school that I attended started out with about 35 students. After drug testing and background checks we were down to about 20. By the time we went for our over-the-road training, there were 10 of us left. Within three months I could count the number of my surviving classmates on one hand.

That’s why there are always ads for truck drivers in the newspaper classifieds.

But, if you don’t mind solitude and being away from home for extended periods of time, it ain’t a bad job. Some drivers even describe it as being paid to tour the country.

Later,

obi

Fargo - You Betcha

2006-05-09T12:33:00.000-07:00

In May, 2003, I got a load assignment I thought I’d never see. It was a load of air conditioners going to Moorehead City, Minnesota and Fargo, ND. Air conditioners in Fargo? What’s next? Heat pumps to Miami?

I dropped all the AC units off and got another load assignment almost immediately. Pick up mustard spice in Grand Forks, ND, about 90 miles north of Fargo, and deliver it to Buffalo, NY. The pickup was scheduled for the following morning.

My pickup was at 0800, and I arrived at 0715. I pulled into the spice company’s lot, set my brakes and went inside. A production worker informed me that no one from shipping arrived until 0800. I went back out to my truck, finished my log entries and decided to turn my truck around so that I could line up with their docks.

I started to pull forward through their asphalt lot and noticed a puddle in front of me. “No problem,” I thought. “There are tire tracks through it.” BIG FUCKING MISTAKE! I don’t know how whatever made those tracks got through that “puddle”, but as soon as I hit it, the front of my tractor sank in up to its front axel. I couldn’t go forward because my fuel tanks were within an inch of the pavement, and I couldn’t go backward because the wall of the hole was straight up and down.

I sat there for about 15 minutes until employees started arriving. I felt like an idiot sitting in my swallowed tractor while these dick-heads were walking by, pointing and laughing. I finally went inside to the shipping office where there was a phone I could use. I called our road service department and got put on the normal 30-minute hold. While I was waiting for a human to pick up the phone, the shipping manager came in.

“How long you gonna be on the phone? I need to use it,” were the first words out of his mouth.

“As soon as someone from road service picks up, I’ll be off,” I replied. “Y’know,” he bellowed, “you’re blockin’ my parkin’ spaces out there, doncha?”

“Bud,” I replied in as civil a tone as I could muster, “if I could move that son-of-a-bitch I would – but I can’t. So, I guess we’ll both need to deal with it for now.”

He stormed out of his office and, I guess, found another phone. Well, he stormed as much as any fat man who walks as if he has a pencil stuck up his ass can. For the next 30 minutes that I was on hold, he never again mentioned that he needed to make a call.

As it turned out, I was on hold longer that it took to get a wrecker to me. After I hung up, I walked outside, smoked a cigarette and the tow truck was there. He hooked up under my bumper, lifted my tractor while I pulled forward slowly with my wheels cranked hard to the right, and he set me down – right beside the hole.

As he was unhooking all his cables he said, “Y’know I pulled a car out of this same damned hole last week. You’d think they’d rope it off or something instead of just fillin’ it in with dirt.” Within an hour, I was loaded and sealed – headed for Buffalo. I hope my company charged those dick-heads for the tow truck.

Later,

obi

Read the Fine Print

2006-04-21T11:15:00.000-07:00

Truck driving. It’s not a job – it’s an adventure. More than that, it’s a way of
life.

I realized, before I started driving a big truck, that I would be away from home for periods of time. What I didn’t know was that most big trucking companies base your home time on how many consecutive days you spend on the road. It boils down to one day at home for every six you spend out.

That’s the formula that was used by my first employer. I normally spent four weeks on the road then got four days at home. That was longer than I wanted to stay out, but I needed four days to regroup, get laundry done, balance the checkbook, shop for road food and all the other bullshit that needed to be done around the house.

I thought my home time would improve when I changed companies. Wrong again.

My second employer based home time on hours, not days. If I spent four weeks on the road, I got 144 hours at home. I realize that doesn’t sound any different, but in practice it’s an enormous change.

As an example: if I got home at 2 p.m. on Thursday, half that day was already shot. I would have Friday, Saturday and Sunday off, then need to be back on the road at 2 p.m. on Monday. So I would get three full days and two half days at home.

The half days were useless. I was so tired on that first day, that I’d hit the sack at about 8 p.m. since I had driven 10 to 12 hours to get home. The day I left again would be another 10 to 12 hour day picking up a load and starting on my trip.

And there’s not a whole lot of time to rest while you’re on the road. Most loads are timed very tightly so that both you and the company make as much money as possible. So it’s drive 10 hours, sleep 8 hours and drive 10 more.

Most aspects of truck driving look good on paper. It’s the fine print that fucks you every time.

Later,

obi

Brain Dead

2006-04-15T12:17:00.000-07:00

I need to write. I mean, I really need to write. Every time I open up the word program on the computer, my mind leaves my body and evaporates into the spring air.

I’m definitely old enough to have a wealth of experiences to relate. My life has certainly not been dull. I’ve worked enough interesting jobs that anecdotes should be running out of my ears. My God – what the fuck is wrong with me?

Who couldn’t come up with some sort of interesting shit after working as a “top 40” disc jockey during the mid to late 1960’s – the most classic era of rock music ever? How about my tenure as a public relations manager for three upstate New York Chambers of Commerce; or 20 years in restaurant management; or 10 more years in route sales?

Sure, I did write a memoir recounting my 2 years as an over-the-road truck driver. That was a no-brainer. Someday it may even be published. I contacted my agent a few weeks ago, and he promised to check on its progress. I’m still waiting on a reply.

Maybe I should try a novel – one that thinly disguises actual events. “All names have been changed to protect the author from litigation and/or personal injury.” My protagonist could be a body-building general manager whose first love, other than trying to screw every waitress on the payroll, was beating customers to a pulp.

Or another management type who goes into business with the author then snorts them out of business by paying for his nose candy from the restaurant’s cash register.
How about the building contractor who agrees to add onto the author’s house, then leaves the job 2/3 completed and declares bankruptcy?

All are decent ideas which deserve some serious thought.

For now, though, I just need to come up with another post for this fucking journal.

Later,

obi

Fear of Flying

2006-04-11T10:24:00.000-07:00

Yeah…it’s been a while. I’m still alive, but I don’t know how or why.

I've had a fear of flying for most of my life. This has always involved airplanes and helicopters, but lately there's been a new twist. Several years ago, I had an unwanted flight involving a sheet of plywood and a wind gust (see "Freaky" October 5, 2005 post). Last week a ladder was the vehicle.

Our house is 28 years old, built the same year that my daughter was born. Like everything else that age, it needs a little work. With my prosthetic hip, very damaged left elbow and rheumatoid arthritis, my home repair skills are limited. Luckily the house is only a single story.

The wood trim that one of our short gutters is nailed to was rotting. Both gutter and trim are only 10 feet long and about 10 feet off the ground, so I figured I could handle their replacement. After removing the gutter and old trim, I went to the home center, bought a 10 foot section of pressure treated 1 X 6 and some paint. The job was half done, right?

I painted the trim, let it dry and marked on its face where the studs were. Then I started some nails on the marks I had made and prepared to mount the trim board. With the wood positioned, I reached for my hammer, lost my grip on the board and my balance and became earthbound.

My face and right arm landed on a landscape timber that I had installed only the week before. I never lost consciousness, but it did ring my chimes quite loudly. When my senses were restored, I FUCKIN’ HURT!

It took about 10 minutes for me to get on my feet, then I hobbled into the house. “What happened to you?” asked my wife. After telling her the short version of my adventure, she helped me into the bathroom and began assessing my injuries.

My right wrist had begun to swell, I had abrasions from my wrist to my elbow, my forehead and cheek were both badly scraped and my right eye was beginning to blacken. She cleaned out all the cuts and scrapes with peroxide and applied anti-bacterial ointment to them. “I really need to blow my nose,” I said. Bad move.

As soon as I tried to clear my right nostril, my right cheek swelled to about 4 times its natural size. Needless to say, I looked like I had been on the short end of a severe ass whoopin’.

I held off going to the local Urgent Care facility until the following morning. I have no health insurance and my Medicare doesn’t kick in until May 1. But after a sleepless night and awakening to more swelling and a nearly closed right eye, I decided it was time for professional help.

Five X-rays later, it was decided that both my wrist and my cheekbone were broken. Neither bone had been displaced much, so a splint was put on my arm from fingers to elbow. Apparently my cheekbone will mend on its own.

I really don't like to fly.

If my prose does not seem its normal free flowing self, blame it on my having to type left-handed, one key at a time. The vicodin probably doesn't help either.

Later (if there is a later)

obi

Not an XL Super Bowl

2006-02-07T11:09:00.000-08:00

I had to ponder this one for a day before I trusted myself to put it on paper. Sunday’s Super Bowl wasn’t “super” except for us die-hard Steelers fans. The first quarter was close, because nobody did shit. Neither team could run the ball, and the receivers must have had Vaseline on their hands instead of stickum.

When Big Ben scored his touchdown, I left my chair with a cry of delight. Then I saw the replay. “He didn’t make it,” I told Barbara who was in the same room, but not watching the game.

In the second half, Pittsburgh started moving the football because Seattle still couldn’t get their shit together. Except for the final score, the game sucked. The only big plays were the run by Willie Parker and the Randall-el to Heinz Ward pass.

I’ve been a Steelers fan since I’ve been watching football. Growing up in the Steel City automatically made you one. Even during the days of Bobby Lane, the quarterback who needed to be sobered up before every home game, I loved the Steelers.

The 70’s, of course, was my decade. Four Super Bowl wins in six years. Then the drought of the 80’s and the loss in the ‘96.

But now we’ve got it, through no fault of our own. We lucked into “one for the thumb,” and join San Francisco and Dallas as the only five-time Super Bowl champions.

I may not have liked the game, but I’m still a Steeler’s fan.

obi

Steelers Rule

2006-01-23T14:42:00.000-08:00

Sorry, Doug

2006-01-20T10:54:00.000-08:00

On June 12, 2002, local pharmacist Doug Smith, 60, was
murdered. A missing persons report was filed, and the
Sheriff’s Department asked for help in locating him.
His body was found (several days later) in a parking
lot near the drug store, placed in the rear seat of
his SUV, shot twice.

In April, 2004, 48 year-old Tab Morgan, a drug addict,
was arrested for 1st degree murder as he was being
released from jail after serving time for a drug charge.
He was a suspect because Doug was set to testify
against him on another drug charge, a prescription
fraud case. Doug had become suspicious of Morgan,
when he had submitted prescriptions from several
doctors for Oxycontin.

Morgan’s trial began this week. I agreed with the
majority of other locals who believed that Morgan
would be convicted swiftly and given the death penalty.

The lead story on last night’s newscast was, “Verdict
reached in murder trial.” When they mentioned in the
teaser that the verdict had come after only about 3
hours of deliberation, I knew that Morgan was headed
for an injection. It would not be a flu shot.

Earlier in the week, the local TV station had broadcast
portions of the trial, including the testimony of a former
female “associate” of Morgan’s, Sonya Stiwinter. Although
she testified that she heard two gunshots as Morgan
confronted Doug that night she also admitted that she and
Morgan had just smoked crack and she didn’t remember
everything that went on. She was not a very credible
witness.

Admittedly still a crack addict and promised leniency on
a pending drug charge in Florida, she looked every bit the
part of a hard-core druggie. She had an 80-year old face
placed on a 40-something body. Sores covered her face, arms
and lips. She appeared to not know exactly where she was or
why. But she was the best the DA could come up with.

Morgan was acquitted, and walked from the courthouse a free
man. With any luck, he’ll succumb to his addictions soon.

Sorry, Doug.

Obi.

James and the Sky Bars

2005-12-31T09:54:00.000-08:00

Just before Christmas, I received an e-mail from my old boss, James. It contained a questionnaire designed to “give an insight into the likes and dislikes of your friends.” We’ve all gotten them before. Of the ten or so I’ve received, I’ve answered maybe four.

One of the 38 questions asked, “What’s your favorite candy bar?” The first thing that entered my mind was, “Hershey bar, no nuts – the big ol’ thick kind.”

Of the answers that preceded mine, most said, “Hershey bar.” Then nostalgia kicked in.

The Necco company makes a candy bar that I truly adore. Whenever I see them in a store, I immediately buy 3 or 4 of them, since I never know when I’ll see one again. They are getting rare.

“Sky Bar,” I typed in as my answer. “They’re getting very difficult to find any more.”

This morning a package arrived in the mail from a country store in Vermont. “What the hell is this? A late Christmas present?”

Inside were 12 Sky Bars from James. Faith in the goodness of my fellow man has been restored.

Later,

Obi

LC and Sir

2005-12-30T14:23:00.000-08:00

We have seven – that’s right seven - cats. That’s in addition to a dozen or so goldfish and the dog, Tina Turner. The cats range in age from older than God to our newest addition LC, pictured, who’s about 7 months.

LC, short for Elsie because she looks like a little cow, is primarily a house cat. For the first few months we kept her inside because she wasn’t spayed. Then we kept her inside because it was damned cold outside.

Being cooped up was not sitting well with her. She chased all our other female cats demonically, but got along famously with our only male feline, Sir. Prior to LC’s arrival, it was Sir’s job to keep all the females in line by beating the shit out of them at every opportunity.

Strangely enough, he gets along famously with LC. They play together, and even when she attacks his tail as he strolls past her, he just gives her a look as if to say, “OK. Since it’s you, I’ll let it slide.” They seem to be our most intelligent cats. In fact, my wife insists that they’re not cats at all, but some highly intelligent beings sent here to straighten us out.

Today, LC got out. It was an unseasonably warm day and we were in and out of the house many times. During one of those excursions, she slipped out with us.

I noticed her playing in the back yard, then got involved with a chore and lost track of her. Then I noticed something move on the roof. LC. She had apparently climbed the apple tree next to our front deck and jumped to the roof. We’ve had the same problem with all our other cats. They get up there, then can’t get back down.

I went to the basement, got the ladder and went to the back deck. With a 6-foot ladder I can get high enough to entice a cat to the edge, then reach up and grab it. I’ve done it several other times.

As I reached the top of the ladder, I noticed the apple tree moving. I came down off the ladder and peeked around the side of the house.

There was Sir, leading LC back down the apple tree. Yep. They’re smarter than we give them credit for, and possibly smarter than we are.

Later,

Obi

It's Fish Tank Day

2005-12-22T16:02:00.000-08:00

Today was fish tank day. That means I drain about 5 gallons of water out of the 55-gallon tank, scrub down the inside tank walls, clean the gravel, clean the outside filter and change the cartridges if needed, then water the house plants with the dirty water and refill the tank with fresh H2O.

Normally a 30-45 minute job with no hassles. Plus it’s kind of relaxing – nothing requiring deep thought or concentration.

After all the steps listed above were completed today, I was left with about ½ gallon of extra water. Normally, that gets thrown off the deck into the back yard, and the plastic buckets are stored outside until the following week.

This afternoon, instead of picking the pail up by its handle, I grabbed the bucket's rim and lifted it off the floor. The next word out of my mouth was, “MOTHERFUCKER,” as the rim broke, the bucket dropped and water poured over the living room’s parquet and white oak floor.

Four old bath towels and much cussing later, the floor was no longer flooded. There’s still a fine sheen of moisture over a 6-foot square area, but heat and air should dry that up in about an hour.

So much for my weekly Zen experience. Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, Happy New Year and have a big bang on the 4th.

Later,

obi

Dispatchers Strike Again

2005-12-16T10:47:00.000-08:00

An ice storm has moved through the South, so it seems like a good day for another post. In keeping with the “lost” theme, today we’re going to the Bronx.

After picking up pasta north of Des Moines, IA, I headed east toward the “Big Apple.” Once again, I had “excellent” directions from my dispatcher. They were, verbatim, as follows:

GEORGE WASHINGTON BRIDGE TO WEBSTER
STREET EXIT. LEFT ON WEBSTER. LEFT
ON FORDHAM ROAD. AT AMOCO STATION
RIGHT ON ARTHUR

Not knowing if there would be any parking spots near my drop, and not wanting to drive around the Bronx until my 10 am delivery time, I waited until about 7 am to head across the bridge.

I crossed the GW, got off at Webster Avenue and followed it to Fordham Road. As instructed, I took a left on Fordham and started my trek through da Bronx. Block after block and still no Amoco gas station.

I crossed the Deegan Expressway and could see the Hudson River in the distance. I assumed that Fordham would end there. Another obstacle loomed in the closer distance – a low-clearance underpass.

A Hess gas station appeared on my right, so I pulled to the curb, set my brakes, pulled on my flashers, locked my truck and headed inside. I asked the clerk where Arthur Street was.

I assumed that he gave me excellent directions because he went on for about three minutes, complete with hand gestures. You can always tell good directions – they include many gestures and lots of pointing.

They may have been excellent, but I didn’t understand a single word he said. The only thing I got during that three minute monologue was that he kept pointing back in the direction from which I had just come. Not Good.

Luckily Fordham Road, while heavily traveled and congested, is a wide thorofare. Plenty wide enough to swing a 70-foot tractor and trailer around. My mind was racing. I could theoretically swing a U-turn, but there was so damned much traffic.

Fuck it! Let’s go for it. I hit my left turn signal and merged into traffic. Then I inched the nose of my truck into the next lane, blocking all traffic headed East. Amid blaring horns and angry gestures from the New York drivers, I swung the truck across the road and executed a perfect, if not highly illegal U-turn.

Back up Fordham Road. All of a sudden, Fordham disappeared. I was now on E 188th Street. Great!

I pulled into a “BUS ONLY” parking place, pulled on the brakes and flashers once again and headed to a pay phone.

“How do I get to where you are from where I am,” was the gist of my question. “Where the hell are you?” was the reply from the deliveree. “How the fuck did you get there?” followed my answer to his question.

“Man, you should have taken a right on Fordham, not a left. Go to the next light and take a left. Then at the next light, take a right on Fordham. Arthur is only a few blocks from there.”

Sure enough, once I crossed Webster Avenue, there was Arthur Street. Had I turned right instead of left on Fordham, I would have been there in 5 minutes, not the hour it actually took.

Dispatchers strike again!

Later,

obi

Just Plain Lost

2005-12-09T11:05:00.000-08:00

While I was driving, I spent a good portion of my time lost. Dispatcher directions are not the best in the world. That’s probably because none of them can read a map.

I’ve been lost in LA, lost in Chicago, lost in the Bronx, lost in Laredo. You name a city that I drove to, and I’ve probably been lost in it.

Chicago can be a real bitch for a truck driver. Heavy traffic, narrow streets and the fact that it has countless low overpasses add up to driving nightmares.

In October, 2002, I got a two-drop load from Massachusetts to Illinois. I had three sets of directions to this place, a specialty foods retail outlet in Downers Grove, IL, west of Chicago. One set of directions came from my office, one set came from a driver at my pickup location in Taunton and one was gleaned by yours truly from my Atlas. The set from the other driver contained too many toll roads, so I held them for an emergency. The set that I got from my Atlas looked too simple, given the complexity of the other two. I went with my office directions.

My directions took me north on I-55 to its junction with I-90/94 north. I was to get off at exit 50 onto Ogden Avenue, west – the street my drop was on. I was to follow Ogden Avenue 4½ miles and the store would be in a little strip mall on the right. The mileage total was right at 60 miles.

I followed the directions, missing only one turn which cost me about ten miles. I found exit 50, got off onto Ogden Avenue and into a pretty run-down neighborhood just west of downtown Chicago. About three miles after I left the interstate, I encountered something Chicago and Boston are both famous for in the trucking world – a low-clearance underpass. It was 13 feet on one side and 12 ½ feet on the other. My truck was 13’6” tall.

I pulled to the curb, set my brakes, definitely locked my doors and headed to a Burger King across the street. Normally, fast food workers are not the best at giving directions – or even knowing where they are at any given moment - but I lucked out. A Cook County Sheriff’s Deputy was standing in line. I apologized for bothering him while he was on break, and asked him where Downers Grove was. “Let’s see,” he said. “From here you’re about 25 miles from there. You drivin’ that semi?” I assured him that I was indeed driving that red monster. “You’ll never get under that bridge,” he informed me.

“Yeah, I realize that. How do I get to Downers Grove if I can’t go that way,” I asked? “You got me, man. You better call and find out.”

Great idea, but I did not have their number and they weren’t listed in the Chicago book. I was just preparing to go back to my truck, release the brakes and lay down under the trailer tandems, when a black man coming out of the burger joint asked, “Where ya lookin’ to get to, driver?” I told him. “Shit – take a right at this light, go to 31st Street and hook a right, go to California Avenue and take a left – there’s a sign for 55. That’ll put you on 55 south. Go to Route 83 north – it’ll take you right into Downers Grove.”

I should have figured that. Those were the directions I had taken from my Atlas, and would have saved me 40 miles and a ton of aggravation. I followed his directions, sort of. Someone had removed the sign for I-55 at the intersection of 31st and California. I couldn’t see the street sign until it was too late to make my turn, so I headed further down 31st to find a place to turn around.

All the side streets were too narrow for me to loop around with right or left turns, so I kept going. Needless to say, that was not where I wanted to be. I passed through a large
Hispanic/Asian neighborhood and ended up at Cicero Avenue. To my right was a large vacant, gravel lot, used as a flea market/farm market during the warmer months. That day, it was vacant.

I made a right onto Cicero and swung into the lot. There was plenty of room to turn around, but getting back out onto Cicero and into the left turn lane was a bitch. Chicago has almost as many drivers as LA.

I finally got out into traffic, made my turn, found California Avenue, I-55, I-83 and Ogden Avenue in Downers Grove.

I located the drop, and pulled behind their strip mall. I was two hours late and expected to get some shit about it, but everyone was cool. A young fellow came out through the back door with a hand-operated pallet jack, and we proceeded to unload half my trailer – about 10,000 pounds. When we finished, I reaffirmed my directions to their Glenview location, and hit the road.

About five blocks down the street, just before I was to get back on highway 83, my truck lurched and I heard a loud “whooshing” sound. An air-line on my trailer had blown, locking down one set of trailer wheels. I pulled slowly into a parking lot, located the line that was leaking by the sound of escaping air, shut the air off to my trailer brakes and messaged road service.

Four hours later I was back on the road, already four hours late for my delivery, with an hour’s drive ahead of me. It took about five minutes to repair the air line, but the service man had gotten lost. It must be something about Chicago.

I arrived at the second drop at 2330, expecting to pull behind their store and sleep until they arrived the next morning. Believe it or not they were waiting for me. It seemed road service had called them, and after explaining my plight, they had agreed to wait until midnight for me, “but not a minute later.” We had the other 10,000 pounds of foodstuffs off-loaded by 0030, and I was on my way back to our drop yard. It turned out to be a 23-hour day, but my log only showed 8¼ hours of it. I made it to the bunk and don’t even remember hitting the pillow.

Next up – Lost in da Bronx. Stay tuned.

obi

Still Lost in East LA

2005-12-06T14:23:00.000-08:00

Why is it that chicken plants have the smallest loading docks in the world? I’d been to several chicken suppliers in the past (I was driving a for a refrigerated carrier) and every single one of them had been the tightest docks I’d ever seen.

The first drop on this load was located off an alley in East LA. That section of the City does not have the best reputation in the world. Remember Cheech Marin’s song, “Born in East LA?”

I found the street and turned into the alley that housed the warehouse. Four other trucks were parked on the narrow street.

I went into the office, checked in with the Hispanic dock workers and went back outside since I was told, “It will be long time we get to you.”

Naturally, I was facing in the wrong direction. If I tried to get into the dock from where my truck was parked, it would be a blindside backing maneuver, not good even where you have enough room. I went down a few blocks and circled around so that I was facing the right way.

About two hours later, after about five attempts getting into their dock, I was unloaded and on my way to drop number 2.

Following directions from the first stop, I crossed 4th Street, went up to the first stop sign, turned right and then right again at the next street. Sure enough, it was Utah Street. I cruised down slowly, but all I saw were two abandoned apartment houses on the left and some single-family dwellings on the right. None had the street number that I needed.

I went around the block. My directions said Utah Street, but they also mentioned Second Street. As I crept down the street behind Utah, I spotted Second and started to pull in. “No”, I thought luckily, “let’s see what’s down there first.” It was a dead-end alley! There was an empty and gated parking lot, but nothing that looked like a warehouse. It was almost midnight and I couldn’t see shit in the dark.

Back onto Utah Street – park – go to sleep and see what the situation looks like in the morning light. At 0530, I arose and cruised around the block again. I found a warehouse with an open door and a refrigerated truck sitting outside. That might be the place. “No,” said the Vietnamese man inside. “It around corner behind toy store.”

Back to where I was the night before. I got to Second Street, parked the truck and walked down the dead-end alley again. Now, instead of being empty, the small parking lot had a BMW and a Honda parked in it. There was also an open doorway. It had the Utah Street address that I was looking for. But, that wasn’t Utah Street. For some reason they didn’t use the Utah side of the building, just the back half on the alley.

I squeezed my rig into that small lot. Then I helped a very nice Mexican man unload 15,000 pounds of chicken and left. They did help me out by opening a gate so that I could pull straight out onto another side street. Otherwise, I’d probably still be there.

The third drop on that load was a ball-buster, too. The directions to Garden Grove were fine until I got off the Freeway. They directed me to follow Euclid Street past the intersection of Westminster. The Vietnamese Trading Company would be on the right.

When I passed Westminster, all I saw was a car wash and then a row of houses on the right. Well, maybe they meant on the left. I made a U-turn. Nope - nothing but houses and apartments. I knew some of these little businesses could operate out of almost any structure, but these people were getting 4,000 pounds of chicken. The place had to be larger than an apartment.

After three more illegal U-turns, going up and down Euclid Street, I spotted a local cop. I pulled over into the slow lane, put on my flashers, set my brake and got out to ask directions.

He was not very helpful. He did tell me I was in the right area, judging by the street address, but he had never heard of the company. Since I was already illegally parked and the cop didn’t seem to mind, I ran over to a pay phone and called the customer.

In very broken English, she told me to go south to a business park and then take quite a few turns. I couldn’t understand which way to turn, but at least I would be closer and maybe could get help from some of their business neighbors.

I pulled into the business center, and it was a combination shopping center, business park and storage unit facility with very narrow, curving streets. I parked the truck in a tow-away zone. I figured that by the time they got something big enough to tow an 80,000-pound semi out of there, I’d be back. I wandered around on foot until I found an Asian man on a forklift moving produce into one of the larger storage units. He pointed me right to where I needed to be. Of course, with the narrow, curving streets it was a bitch getting the truck in. I also had to block a street while they unloaded me, but no one seemed to care.

After I was unloaded, I headed to our terminal in Mira Loma to wash the stale chicken blood and the foul stench that it produced out of my trailer. Then I sat and waited for my next load.

I had several more trips to Southern California in general and LA in particular, but none were as confusing as that one.

More later,

obi

California - Here I Come

2005-12-02T08:50:00.000-08:00

California. What a great place to send a newbie driver – especially on one of his first trips. I had been there twice before with my trainers, but this was a solo experience.

I picked up a load of chicken in Kentucky and headed to LA. There were three drops on this load, two in LA and one in Garden Grove which is south of LA, on the way to San Diego. My first drop was on Sunday night, the second early Monday morning and the third on Monday afternoon.

I-40 to I-15 then onto I-10 to I-5 to exit 4. Sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? But traffic into LA on a Sunday evening is not an experience that I want to repeat any time soon. Six lanes heading west, all packed with speeding vehicles. Plus, someone had removed the sign signaling the entrance to I-5. I happened to guess where it should have been, but was headed in the wrong direction.

I realized there was a problem when a sign sprang up in front of me that read, “Wilsher Boulevard – Next Right.” That and the facts that three more lanes were merging in from the San Bernadino Freeway, there was a three-lane exit ahead and I was surrounded by what appeared to be downtown Los Angeles.

It was panic time! I slid my truck into the “V” between the Freeway I was on and the exit ramp, pulled on my flashers and set the brakes. With three lanes of fast-moving exit traffic on my right and the six-lane freeway on my left, I realized that even if I discovered a route to my delivery point, there was no way to get out of my “safe harbor” without killing someone.

My immediate solution was to light up a cigarette. “When in doubt, smoke.” I checked my Atlas, but the city map for LA was rather sketchy, so I had no real clue where my exit was in relation to my position. I tried my CB, but I had seen no other trucks since stopping – another indication that I was probably somewhere that I shouldn’t be.

Next, I took some pictures. I figured I wouldn’t be back there again so I might as well immortalize the moment. Then I had another smoke, thinking about Cris Rea’s late 1980’s song, “The Road to Hell.” One line in particular kept running through my mind:

“On your journey ‘cross the wilderness
from the desert to the well
you have strayed upon the motorway to hell.”

In my mind, the wilderness was Oklahoma, the desert was Arizona and the well was the Pacific Ocean. It all made perfect sense at the time.

My rationale was, if I sat there long enough a cop would stop. I mean, here sat this 70-foot long tractor-trailer in the middle of a busy Interstate with its flashers on and its driver chain-smoking cigarettes and looking bewildered. Somebody had to notice.

So I sat – and smoked – and smoked – and cussed – and sat some more. And smoked some more. And cussed a whole lot more. Nothing! I ended up sitting there for about two hours chain-smoking and cussing watching sheriff’s cars go by.

At about 2000 hours, I glanced in my mirror just in time to see an LAPD car slip in behind my truck with its flashing lights on. Since I was very close to the road on the driver’s side, I slid over to the right-hand seat and rolled down my window. A cop was actually coming up beside my truck and his ticket book was not in his hand. Maybe I wouldn’t get a littering citation for the pile of cigarette butts beside my truck or for being an eyesore on the chic LA landscape.

“What’s the problem,” he said when he reached my window.

“Well,” I said, “At first my problem was that I was lost. Now it’s not only that I’m lost, but also I couldn’t get out of here even if I knew where I was going. If I pull out to the right, I’ll lose sight of traffic and probably kill somebody when they run under my truck at 70 miles an hour. If I pull out to the left I’ll probably kill myself because there hasn’t been a break in that traffic for two hours.”

“OK”’ he said. “Let’s start by getting you unlost. Where is it you need to go?” I told him. “You didn’t miss it by much. Your turnoff is only about a mile from here. The problem is to get there you need to be going the other way.”

He proceeded to give me directions on where to turn around at an exit about three miles down the road. “Thanks”, I said. “Now, how do I get there without killing a dozen motorists?”

The next thing I knew, he was on his shoulder microphone. “Escort - what’s your 20? OK. I need you to slow traffic up here so I can get a big-rig back on the road. How long ‘till you can get here?” Then to me he said, “Be an officer here to assist in about three minutes. I’m going back by my car and wait. When you see my flashlight shine in your driver-side mirror, haul it out of here.”

Within three or four minutes, I saw his flashlight reflect in my mirrors. I looked in my right-side mirror and to my delight and amazement, there was nothing - no traffic at all. Those two cops had completely stopped traffic on a busy section of LA freeway, and I was outta there – fast.

Believe it or not, I was still early for my appointment. But the adventure had just begun.

More on the LA saga soon.

obi

Flashbacks

2005-11-16T14:21:00.000-08:00

Yeah…I know. It’s been a long time since my last post. No particular reason except for plain ol’ laziness.

Something weird has been happening lately. I haven’t been on the road for almost two years now and I’m starting to get flashbacks. They’re not constant, but I get them on a frequent, but irregular, basis.

It doesn’t matter what I’m doing – there they are. I can be watching TV, talking to someone, driving down the road or reading a book. Strangely enough, they never come while I’m sleeping.

All of a sudden, somewhere I’ve been on the road just flashes into my mind. It could be a memorable stretch of highway, a truck stop, a loading dock – almost anything.

They’re vivid and they appear to be accurate. Where the fuck are they coming from? Maybe I’m just reliving sections of the book that have been burned into my brain. But I haven’t even looked at that bitch since I sent it off to my agent. Too much of a good thing and all that. Not really. Just sick of reading and rereading, editing and reediting, changing and changing back again.
That must be it. I’m not really going crazy, just trying to rid my subconscious of all that crap I lived with for four years. “Goodbye and good riddance.” Until the next edit or rewrite, that is.

obi

The Joy of Trucking (Part 1)

2005-10-21T09:13:00.000-07:00

Truck driving is similar to serving in the Army. Most of the job consists of, “Hurry up and Wait.” If I dropped a load at 0800, I’d get another load assignment at 0815 that read, “Next pickup @ 0845 in Bumfuck. High priority load. Must be on time.”

No matter that the pickup was over 100 miles away and the directions sucked. I could message dispatch that there was no way I’d make it on time or that I was about out of driving hours for the day. The return memo would read, “Do the best you can.”

I’d bust ass to get to the pickup and guess what. The load would not be ready for another two hours. I hurried, now I’d wait.

At the other end of the run, the delivery, it would be a repeat performance.

Many a night I sat in a WalMart distribution center for 6, 8 or even 10 hours while they fiddle-farted around unloading 6 pallets from my trailer. Then I’d wait another hour while they processed the paperwork and got the signed bills of lading back to me.

It didn’t take long for my attitude to shift from, “If it’s due at 0800, I’ll be there at 0630,” to, “I’ll get there when I can.”

Yes, truck driving is a joy.

Later

obi