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
Friday, August 25, 2006
Monday, August 21, 2006
We're Number One !!!
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
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
Monday, August 14, 2006
Why Can't I Get Published?
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
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
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
I Am Pissed!
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
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
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Hooterama
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
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
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Road Food
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
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
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
You Got One Too?
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
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
Monday, July 10, 2006
WEIRD SHIT
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
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
Friday, July 07, 2006
CB RADIOS
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
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
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Alberto Who?
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
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
Monday, June 12, 2006
Laredo II
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
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
Friday, June 09, 2006
"W" is a Dunce
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
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
Friday, June 02, 2006
Laredo I
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
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
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Not Just Sitting
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
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
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
The Incredible Talking Dick
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
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
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Let's Hit the Road
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
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
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Fargo - You Betcha
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
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
Friday, April 21, 2006
Read the Fine Print
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
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
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Brain Dead
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
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
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Fear of Flying
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
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