"Papa said son, you gonna drive me to drinkin'' - 5 great old cars and memories.

                                                     "This story's true, I'm here to say..."

 

Now I'll tell you right from the start, dear readers, that I have never been the 'sharpest tool' in the shed, as the kids say. Indeed, until recently, I thought that Hamas was a delicious spread made of Chick Peas and eaten with flat bread. Not to put too fine a point on it, but depending on the situation, I can often be found, wearing rain gear and galoshes, but still having to be told to get out of the rain. I have voted for Ralph Nader three times for president. 3 Times! Get it? ...But, recently I came to an important life decision and I think I probably may have aced the test and made the right decision. To not drive any more. 

As some of you social media friends of mine know, for the last few years I have been enjoying the many various aspects of Parkinson's Disease, a 'progressive' neuro-muscular disease. Well, maybe not enjoying it. More like toiling under the tyrannical yoke of Parkinson's. But as I have stated before, this diagnosis is both bad and also not really that bad at the same time, compared to what others are up against. But, for the purpose of this essay, when you have Parkies, one thing is for sure. It is a progressive condition. Meaning you don't get better. It may not croak you straight away, maybe not for many years. But when it comes to how it affects your body's functions, eventually it will get you. Running, walking, getting dressed, tying a tie, holding a cup of coffee. Ability to do these things, with skill, diminishes over time. Driving a car with Parkies, today's example, is an ability that diminishes with time. No matter what you think or want. Making you a liability or even a down-right hazard, driving around at 69 mph in a 4000 lb. potential death machine. Sooner or later, someone is going to make the call. I figured it was more dignified if it were me. So I put my keys on the hook by the front door, for the last time. Now friends, I have never been a big car guy, to be honest. But I have been a big independence guy. Getting out and about, taking the road trip. Dicking around on a sunny day, sun roof open, music blasting. I was the first to get my license back when I was a teen. At the tender age of 15 1/2, I had my licence to menace the sidewalks of Maine in 400 c.i. of internal combustion engine inside of a 2 ton Sherman tank. Of course at the tender age of 16 1/2 I had lost that license for 'Driving to Endanger'. But that is another story. It's not why we are here. Stay on task. Gosh! But speaking of cars, as we were, and in order to get started, I introduce you to some of the vehicles that got me started in being a Real american guy, with a CAR man, envy of all my buddies and wanted by all chicks at school needing a ride to the dance. It all really started with a beaten up old Army Jeep. 

                                              "It's got eight cylinders and use them all"...

An old 1955 Willy's Jeep to be Specific. Side boards made of plywood on the back to pack with hay, one window that wouldn't close up and a floor board like Swiss cheese. It had a really low gear ratio with a speed stick shift. That meant if you didn't pay attention, you might 'pop the clutch' causing the front end to leap and lurch like a spastic Shetland pony. And no matter how many times I practiced in the hay fields getting it down, my first trip out on the real roads, on the mean streets of Pittsfield Maine had me a hopping and popping that clutch in the parking lot of my grandfather's gas station. He happened to be at work. Now to say that my old Paba, best grandfather ever, was a nervous guy is to say that the Titanic was a big ship, or Yosemite Sam had Tourette's. Paba was a 'Nervous Nelly' for sure. And he didn't stand for no 'monkey shines'. No 'Happy Horseshit' either. But there I was, doing wheelies in Pa's place of business. His wig: flipped. I eventually did master the subtle nuances of the old, low gear ratio, 3 speed stick, thanks, not to Paba, but to the 1955 Willy's. Also packed a lot of hay into the barn over the years with that old jeep.

                                                      "4 barrel carb and dual exhaust"...

As I mentioned earlier, I was just a a hair under 16 when I got my license and was declared to legally traverse the byways of Maine, and beyond, all by myself, or even worse, with a group of teenage yahoos in tow. Now when I was that age, I had a gig working at a  local seafood restaurant, as well as various side hustles at local farms, milking cows, shoveling shit, baling hay, etc. So I had pretty good bread at the time. You know, for a 16 year old mook, anyway. So since I ha a driver's license, I figured I needed a car so, you know, I'd have something to roll over at a high speed, or crash into a guardrail with. So what'd I get? The magnificent ' Deathmobile'. A 1974 Mercury Monterrey. It had a a 400 c.i. engine that could really get lost, a suspension system that made you feel like you were floating in a boat. It slept 6 comfortably, unless you opened the trunk which offered lodging for three more. It had an 8 track stereo system that had dynamite sound, but unfortunately the Beatles White Album cassette was stuck in it, and played on continuous loop. Brakes good. Tires fair. Lost my license to drive in the old Deathmobile TWICE within a year, by the SAME cop, my unfriendly bastard and NEIGHBOR, state trooper Duane. One time for 'Driving to Endanger', the other time for doing '78 in a 55'. See while most kids were either too scared to go for their license, or were too shit scared to be pulled over, I was driving through town with my two best buddies riding on thr hood like Bo and Luke Duke, or screeching to Augusta, and the nearest Ticketron kiosk, to get tickets to see the Rolling Stones. Ah well, live and learn. Or so one would think.

                                                         Brakes were good, tires fair....

 

So I was working, in my early 20's, doing construction work with my old  Uncle Frank. We worked for a company that sent us around the country building women's clothing stores. Fun,sure. But it really was just a gig to keep us busy between beer times. It also could afford me and Frankme to explore the lifestyle we were accustomed to. Namely, at his time, we were mainly concerned with driving around in the company van,  wasting time and gas, scanning boat yards and junkyards for an old gem of a wooden boat. Like a 1967 wooden Cris Craft, teak deck, inboard Ford 302 c.i. in board engine. It was a pipe dream we eventually did live out - bringing a house boat back to Maine and living the Jimmy Buffet life. But on this particular summer afternoon, cruising the shores of Maryland and Delaware, there were no boat deals. But there was a car deal. Out in then front of a relatively small Catholic church, sat a 1967 Volkswagen Beetle. Creamy white in color, it was. It had the small little window in the back and the funky pipe bumpers. Sure the floorboards were rusted out and the tires a bit worse for wear. But it ran good, and was able to get WTOP on the AM radio, so, at least I'd have traffic and weather together on the 5's. And dig this: the guy selling it was the local parish priest, a father Augustine O'Reilly. What?! Yep, Father Augustine O'Reilly. And he was asking  a mere $250 bucks. 250 BUCKS! So, when I eventually came back home to Maine, I was swinging with a 'punch buggy'. The tin knockers on the job gave me some galvanized metal, along with some roofing pitch and tech screws, so my floor boards were even safe. I loved that punch buggy. I turned beatnik for a while . Grew a goatee. I stuck an accoustic guitar in the back n case  a 'Hootinany' broke out. Thanks your holiness....or your excellency...or....?....Hell, thanks Augie!

                                                 Fenders was clickin' the guardrail post...

A 1985, I think it was, Ford F-150 pick up, with a camper cap on the back. Back before I had a credit card, or even a cell phone to get me out of jams, I repeatedly threw caution to the wind with this old beatah pick up, and engaged in se veral cross country type road trips. I travelled to Colorado, accelerator shit the bed. On way back form New Orleans, my timing chain crapped out and we had to be rescued in the Panhandle of Florida by this dude named Bobo. I hear banjo music. I used to sleep in the back after weekend trips home to Maine while working in Boston. Camping in an abandoned lot next door to a  crack house?! Talk about wild life. Sometimes plan A was a lot more fun because there was no Plan B.

                                                     "I said, "Boys, that's a mark for me"...

Now most of the beaters I have driven over the years represent, to me, the foibles of my youth. The fun and adventure of adolescence. Risky behavior and rule bending fun. To me my first mini van was oposite. It was a Dodge Grand Caravan. 1989? 1990? I think. Somewhere in there. We didn't buy it new, but it was pretty new. And had payment. With it, we (my wife, kids) took museum trips, went to zoos. birthday parties, Soccer, tee ball, Scouts, D.I., Robotix club. We packed it up to go to camp, and loaded it full of posters and paints and kids to school events. A real suburban un-macho dad mobile. Which makes it all the more ironic that it met its demise (but thankfully I did not meet mine)on the butt end of two Maine moose I ran into on the way to a binrd hunt up near Greenville. FYI, the two big slow, unreflecting, hard to see in the dark, behometh deer of the North, finished up the old Grocery getter, eventually for good.

Just like my driving career is pretty much finished. No more road trips to be stranded on. No more moose to slay, no more speeding laws to ignore. No more picking up the kids at school. 'Get Parskinson's, they said. It'll be fun they said'. Thanks a lot,F'n Parkies! Ah well. It was a good run. Errr...or a pleasant drive. 

"If you don't stop drivin' that Hot... Rod..."

The old Toledo OH Friends of the Opera Routine, eh?

Salad Days, Volume #48: Toledo Friends of the Opera

The following excerpt is taken without permission from my forthcoming novel, tentatively titled, 'Men have a Penis and Women Come from Bars', or, Everything I Ever Needed to Know, I Learned on the Job-Site', available on Flybynyt Publishing.

It was the best of times, it was the best of times, to paraphrase Dickens. It was, as it always was, some time in the early mid-80's, and me in my natural prime was still working the trade with some of my most esteemed cronies in Uncle Frank's ZVI Construction Rolling Thunder Revue and Commercial Construction Contractors. We were, in this instance, in the highly urbane and sophisticated environs of Toledo Ohio, along the Great Lakes and the majestic banks of the Maumee River. We were holed up in a low grade Motel called the Westgate, on the less reputable side of town, because, and I am not making this up, there was a really big women's bowling championship in town, and all the good hotels were booked. The best perk about the Westgate was that it was near the job-site, the rooms could be rented by the hour, and and we got Porn channels for free. Also, as we came to find out, the manager was a drinking man, and he didn't mind buying.

After settling in to the Westgate, the job was going along swimmingly in the usual manner, all things considered. This was good, because the trip out to Toledo from the home office in Boston had gotten off to a less than auspicious start. On the way there, for example, our caravan had gotten separated somewhere in Buffalo, when yours truly, distracted from a wicked contact high from my weed-smoking passenger and co-worker Greggy, who was puffing on a fatty the whole trip, followed the WRONG panel truck all the way into the heart of Buffalo, into a gas station, before I realized, 'holy fuck, that's not Uncle Frank'!

Wait, let me retrace a bit. Perhaps you should take a minute and get to know some of he ZVI Construction 'Rabbit Killers' (Google Friedman Test). I believe this will help you appreciate my position. Of course, there was Ol' Uncle Frankme, Top-Hatted ringleader of this underpaid, under talented band of 20-something knuckleheads who got to be paid $10 per hour to travel the country and drink, under the auspices of construction work. He was the man who really knew better, but somehow was still out there on the road, despite himself, if nothing else, out of obligation to all our Mom's to keep our asses out of jail. Then, of course there was Stu Augenstern, alias 'Auggie the Blade', or 'the master of the Idle Threat'. Stu was about 5' 1' and 140 lbs. ringing wet. But when Stu was teased, or drunk, he was often want to throw out ridiculously unlikely threats, way out of proportion to his ability to implement, like, 'I'll cut you a new asshole', or, 'I'll cut you 4 ways, fast, wide, deep, and often. See, Stuey carried a knife. Right. He carried a knife in the same sense that Barnie Fife carried a pistol. Anyway, beside Frank and Stu, there was Greg Liberty. His claim to fame was that, in 1969, he drove from his home town of Linneus Maine, with his first wife, in his VW micro-bus, to Woodstock N.Y. to attend the big show. Oh yeah, and at this time, he was also doinking his first cousin Wanda, and the bastard once sent me in to a one-hour photo shop in Chicago to pick up pictures of him and his paramour, nekked as God made 'em, doing who knows what, embarressing the bejeepers out of me in front of the hot photo-shop attendant. I swear, I don't make this stuff up. Greg was the guy who got me stoned on the trip out to Toledo in the first place, from the Bob Marley Spliff he was smoking with the windows rolled up. Anyhow, beside these two mooks, there was Mark Cote, also known as Animal, the mad Potugese mellanzana described in earlier episodes, his Italian partner Joe Paglioni, and my old cousin Billdo, from Florida. Of the group, Joe was the only guy on the crew who seemed to have a fucking lick of sense. That I'm not even too sure about. Rounding out the team was the guy from the head office, sent out to check on us, name of Gene LaFrancios. The only thing I remember about Eugene is that he crashed his rental into and through the hotel room door one time, and he had a penchant for cocaine. Along with yours truly, that rounded out the crew.

So, as I said, things were going along well. We were building the store, and we were coming in on budget thanks, in large part, to Frankme bribing the living fuck out of the Fire and Building Inspectors. We had secured a really good 'package store' in the neighborhood that sold 'Old-Style' at about $2/six-pack and, like I mentioned before, free porn. Life was good. One particularly fine Saturday morning, Greggers decided sitting around the motel room drinking beer and watching porn wasn't good enough. He wanted adventure. He had brought to Toledo, strapped to the roof of his 'Weed-mobile' a 16 foot canoe, with which he intended to navigate the mighty Maumee River. He asked me if I wanted to come along. I had already forgiven him for the '1 hour photo' incident and since he had the bag of Ginch and a cooler of Beer, and a plausible plan, I decided to go. A friend with Weed is a friend indeed, I alway said. At least, I thought, he could regale me with stories of his trip to Woodstock. We get to the river and have a marvelous day out on the water, dodging Barges and Oil Tankers in our little canoe, absorbing the magnificent sky-line of Toledo Ohio, and waxing philosophic. But after an afternoon of this our cooler was empty, and we were pretty sun baked, so we decided to shizzle back to the Hizzle for a night-cap and a nap. When we got there, the rest of the fellas were getting shined up for an evening on the town. The plan for the night: Booze Cruise. Our Motel manager friend knew some people, and he and the crew were going to do a night water cruise of the Maumee River and out into Lake Eerie. Sounded great, except the fact that Greggers and I were already pretty well polished at that point. Coincidentally, so were the rest of the crew. It seemed that while we were plying the silky waters of the Ohio Vally, the rest of the crew were plying the hospitality of Tom, the motel manager. Did Iention I loved this Westgate Motel?

Anyhow, one of Tom's friends was mostly sober and rode us downtown, and we find ourselves down on the waterfront, loading onto some sort of Mark Twain looking craft, with big-assed paddle wheels, if I'm not mistaken, which I could be. All of us grungy construction types sallied up onto the craft, mostly wearing the ususal array of filthy t-shirts and ripped dungarees, basball hats and two day beards. For some reason though, Greggers was wearing some sort of outfit, which I think was a matching set of red and black flannel pajamas. I don't actually think I'm making this up. Anyhow, even for Toledo, home of the Toledo Mud Hens and Jamie Farr of M*A*S*H fame, we looked like a bunch of friggin' hillbillies.

Well, one drink led to another and about half way along our aquatic journey we started getting hungry. Stu had taken a quick reconnoiter to the upper deck, and had reported that there were hors'd'ouvres up there, and they smelled really fucking good. He offered to go up there and cut someone a new asshole, but Cousin Bill was able to calm him down. So Greggers, the drunken, stoned, cousin fucker, wearing the plaid p.j.'s takes the lead and suggests we go on up there and commence to bogarting said snacks. However there happens to be some sort of high falootin' private function going on up there, he says. But who's gonna notice if we mingle and enjoy a few snacks. Well, to be specific, the private function on the upper deck happened to be the 'Toledo Friends of the Opera'. This was, in it self, surreal: to hear Toledo and Opera in the same sentence seemed a bit incongruous. But hey, snacks are snacks. To make a long story short, after about two platefuls of stuffed shrimp and scallops on a toothpick, it was readily obvious to any one wearing a tux that we were no friends of the opera, Toledo or otherwise. Somehow a summons of the Captain was made and it was gently requested that we leave the upper deck immediately. To be honest, I think there was a somewhat seious discussion of throwing us over board, if Greggers didn't cut the shit.

So the night kind of went on about like that from there. The cruise was pleasant enough , except the0 part about almost getting keel-hauled. After, we ended up going to a strip club ( you knew that was coming, didn't you?), but there was some kind of fight between some of us who wanted to go back to the room, and some of us who wanted to hang around and meet some of the entertainers. What I remember is me and Ol' Joey Paglioni staying then hitching a ride from downtown and getting picked up by a couple of deaf girls. I swear I don't make this shit up. Either that or the beneficial effects of the last two strip club shots had rendered me inaudible. No, I remember now, it was two loveley hearing impaired girls who were ever so patient with my and Joe's drunken asses and not only drove us to the west side of town, but arranged to meet us for a double date for the next night. It was all a bit bit Jimi-Hendrixy at this point. Anyhoo, me and Joey P. get back to the room, wake up Greggers, have a night-cap, and look back on our busy day. We didn't see how we would have changed a thing.

I remember thinking to myself, the next afternoon, as I was hiding out in Tom's office, hung-over, slouched behind his desk, hiding from some double-date that I had arranged with two nice Ohio girls; Jesus Christ, to think I could have been working today.

Originally published in 'Salad Days', from blog, Sufferin' Bastards Local #178, 3/7/07