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
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Shut Down
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
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
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Wind and Fire
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
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
Friday, January 05, 2007
Black Friday
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
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
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
On the Road
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
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
Monday, January 01, 2007
SOS
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
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
Sunday, December 31, 2006
HFNY
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
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
Saturday, December 30, 2006
W's Belated Christmas Present
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
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
Friday, December 29, 2006
WTF ?
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
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
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Well, Well, Well
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
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
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
A Promise
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
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
Monday, October 30, 2006
Staying the Course Sucks
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
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
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Lot Lizards
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
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
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Go %*#@ Yourself
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
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
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Forgive Me, Father
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
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Feelings - Very Special Feelings
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
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
Friday, August 25, 2006
Groovy
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
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
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
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