Once more into the breech, dear friends: Car buying

My wife needs a car.  The 200k+ mile Cherokee is getting sort of on the suicidal side of drivability. Every now and then we’ll pass the ghost of a WWII Kamikaze pilot and offer him a ride.  He’ll look at the car and politely decline.  No please, I’ll continue to wander the Earth on foot as a spirit, thank you very much.

It’s time.

So…the search has just begun.  New pro-tip. Google: “Complaints against Carfax”.  You’ll run out of life before you run out of websites to look at. Well…there’s a once valuable resource out the window.  So, my help was sought, and who am I to say no?  Besides, if she needs a cynical, skeptical, borderline paranoiac smart ass by her side, I’m her man.

After some hard lessons I learned from my own car purchase a year ago, I have some guidelines for the salesman to follow:

  1. No talking during the initial inspection of the car. I have a clipboard and a flashlight and I know what I’m doing. Don’t ask. There’s only one reason why someone is poking around a used car with a flashlight. Mismatched paint, uneven panel lines, slight ripples in the bodywork – a prior accident.  I will pull the transmission dipstick and examine the color of the fluid and I will even smell it.  I will also test the oil from that dipstick as well.  Don’t bother…I brought my own wipes.
  2. If you insist on coming on the test drive for “insurance reasons”, no talking during the drive. None.  I’m sure you have a lovely family and you have every right to be proud of them.  We’re not buying your family. We’re buying a used car. No chatting whatsoever. My wife and I are focusing on the car. We’re gauging its chi, determining the vibes, and seeing which side of the Force on which it rolls. We are going to GROK this car.  If there’s any chatting to do, we’ll ask and you will answer to the best of your ability.  Be warned, I was born with a hypersensitive bullshit detector. How you answer will affect the ultimate purchase of the car almost as much as the condition of the car.
  3. Do NOT yarble on about CarFax.  Ten minutes of casual research has busted my CarFax cherry.  CarFax might not be intentionally lying about the history of a car (State Farm? I’m looking at you), but it’s a falsehood nonetheless. No, no…it’s not you. We just don’t trust CarFax. Which brings us to…
  4. If the Magic 8-Ball of my mental state says “Signs Point to Yes”, we will set up a time when we can take it to our mechanic. This is a deal-breaker. No inspection by our mechanic, no deal. Full stop.  The fat lady has sung, Elvis has left the building.

Growing up in Florida: The Pig Killers

The Pig Killers

Let me tell you about my uncle Hugo:  Whip smart, could turn his hand to nearly any task, never finished high school but was well read, served in the Merchant Marine during World War II, had two ships shot out from beneath him and lived to tell the tale.

Also a dedicated alcoholic with a side of violence.

I’ll give him this though…he recognized there was a problem and he turned his full attention to solving it.  Granted, it wasn’t much of a plan, but it WAS a plan.

For some reason, he and I bonded…for all that he scared the living shit out of me. He encouraged my model building, guitar playing, and introduced me to science fiction…three pastimes I continue to this day.  Maybe that’s why my mom shipped me off to his farm in the summer of my 16th year?

Farm, you ask?  Well…it was a farm in as much that he grew things.  It was roughly an acre of land on a gravel road with a cinder block house plunked in the middle of nowhere…typical for central Florida.  That was part of the plan.  See, my uncle was a big fan of the Whole Earth Catalog. If you weren’t around back in the 60s and 70s, or were just unaware, it was this pretty cool catalog that was geared towards folks drawn to the back to the land movement of the time.  Not only did it sell things like cherry farriers, threshing milkers , and corn hoes, it had lots of interesting articles. I remember one article that gave instructions on how to “hunker down”. That’s a squatting  back on your heels while you chew a hay stem and talk about how the lack of rain has been right disappointing…or something. There was also a short story written in the margins of the catalog that told the tale of a journey of some dude named Divine Right. There was, if memory serves, a fair amount of sex in the story. Are you with me on that? 16 year old boy, boredom, a book that had lots of sex in it.

I adored the Whole Earth Catalog.

Anyway, the farm was part of his plan to not be so drunkenly violent. Get back to the land, put some sweat equity into a life, get clear, man. Central Florida, boredom, surrounded by drunken rednecks. What could go wrong? Actually, to be fair, now that I think of it, it seems to have worked. He still drank a lot and did scary things while doing so, but he was kind in a sort of sarcastic/snarky way. Also, he saved me from the priesthood…but more on that some other time.

But, that’s not what I hunkered down to tell ya’ll about. I’d like to talk about slaughtering pigs and about my uncle’s neighbor, Jerry.

At some point in the back to the land thing, unless you were a vegetarian, you had to slaughter your own livestock. At least once…it was a right of passage. I think he was inspired to do so after reading an article in the Whole Earth Catalog…once he was able to pry it from my hands.

“No! What…hah..Hi Uncle. The catalog? Heh, yes I was reading it. What was I reading? Ummm, an article…. ah an article about how to make your own cheese. Cheese comes from milk. I didn’t know that. Isn’t that fascinating?”

Catalog in hand and his new copy of Foxfire he began to study the mysteries of turning pig into pork. And I waited.

I won’t bore you with the details of the prep work I had to do before the great undertaking. Except, collecting wood was key for some reason…lots of wood. I picked up every goddamn twig on that property and made a great whacking pile of the stuff. I proudly showed it to Uncle when he got home from work. He lavished much praise on me for my industry and dedication.

That’s a lie. He said, “Jesus Christ! Who are you going to burn? Joan of Arc?”

The next day was the day. Now, I won’t lie to you (any more than necessary), but I found the whole process fascinating. I don’t ever want to do it again, but I know that I could. I sprinkled a tiny bit of food into the pig’s trough while Uncle sat on the edge of the pen with his rifle and neatly drilled her through the back of the head. Dead pig.

I’m not sure that summer in Florida is the best time to slaughter an animal. Maybe my uncle was impatient? The bugs sure appreciated the gesture though.

There we were…mid slaughter. It’s hot, buggy and well, bloody. My uncle’s neighbor  saunters over.

“So, ya’ll slaughtering a pig?”

My uncle is standing there, knife in hand. I’m holding a tangle of intestines in place with my bare hands. The pig’s head is on a tarp watching all of this

“Uh, yeah…Jerry. That’s what we’re doing. Slaughtering a pig”

Now, I suppose this would have been a good time for us three men to hunker down and talk about the finer parts of slaughtering and butchering as well as the joys of country living. But, my uncle gives Jerry (who you might have figured out by now is a numbskull) the hairy eyeball. As he leaves, Jerry says, “Say Hugo…you should have a barbecue! We can talk about all of this. Give me some pointers. I think it’s time I did my own pig.”

Cue ominous music

Fast forward – the pig is now pork. Desirable parts are in the freezer. Less desirable parts are buried in a hole dug by yours truly. (Lemme tell you…few things can make one ponder one’s own path in life like digging a huge hole in the Florida heat and filling it with offal. It was awful.) So, Jerry and Uncle confer, Jerry’s plans are made and tomorrow is his pig’s big day. That morning, Uncle and I were doing something outside when we heard Jerry start the process. Like my uncle, he was going to use a gun to kill the pig. Unlike my uncle, he got into the pen with the pig. We heard some rustlings, some “here piggy piggy”, some annoyed pig grunts then…


At this point, me being a visual person, I would use all kinds of different fonts and fancy formatting to convey the commotion that took place. But I can’t. It was too great and terrible in its scope for formatting tricks. Simply put…

The pig squealed.

It wasn’t a squeal of pain.

It wasn’t a squeal of fear.

It was a squeal of fury.

It was a cry against all of the hurts and injustices this sad world could generate. It was a cry of vengeance and righteous retribution and not going gently into that good night. It was a cry that said, “Farmer Brown? I am going to fuck you up!

I’ve never been a soldier, so I can only imagine that what followed is what war sounds like. Crashing wood, screams of anguish and fury, profanity, pleas for mercy and then finally: BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM. A resigned grunt…then silence followed by moans of pain and soft weeping.

Uncle and I had cleared the fence by this time and were rushing to the rescue. What we found was a scene of devastation and carnage. In the center of the wrecked pen lay the pig – that valiant and mighty pig. In the corner sat the dumbass. Bruised, bleeding, and holding a broken leg. Between sobs he told us the story. The pig wouldn’t settle down, wouldn’t come near him, he got impatient, faced the pig like some kind of cowboy high-noon showdown, took careful aim…and nicked her leg. If he hadn’t had the chance to re-aim his weapon and empty the clip, this story would have a different ending.

I felt sad for the pig. Sad at the suffering, the waste, the loss of life and spareribs…but, I was also proud. I was proud to have known that such an animal, forced to live in its own shit, rose up in that one moment of stupidity and cruelty, didn’t give up, and ultimately nearly gave as good as she got.

Rest in peace you magnificent beast. You fought bravely and well. Your cousin died peacefully and was delicious.

I play art critic today: The Introduction

Just a short blog today.  I ran across this picture and I must say, it hits that sweet spot of fascinating, creepy, and awkward.  Yes, this is a real painting by a real artist and yes you can buy it.  The artist’s name is Nathan Greene and the name of the painting is “The Introduction”.  Find the link on your own. I can’t be responsible for you waking up your household with screams in the night.  I’m not even sure I should show it it to you.  I care about your mental health.  The picture is just below.  I’m just going to keep writing until it falls off the screen. That way, you’ll have time to decide if you’re ready for the gitchy feeling this is sure to create.

Still here?

It’s like Jesus created an Internet dating service… sort of a cross between E-Harmony and Adult Friend Finder (look it up if you must, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

“Meet sexy, Godly singles in your area TONIGHT!”

Still here?  Are you ready? (Ok, I’m just messing with you at this point.)

Here it is…



“Adam, based on the answers you gave on the questionnaire, and the values I found when I looked into your heart, I think Eve here would be a perfect match. As you can see, I have imbued here with…ample gifts. Plus she has no intention of having a career of her own…even though she has a master’s degree.”

(Please add you own caption in the comments. There will be a prize.)

What the hopping hell is going on here? This is puzzling on so many levels. Not the least of which is that it appears that they’re in the Garden of Eden, which was, before the Serpent, a clothing-discouraged kind of place. Also,why is Jesus all toga’d up? (and yes, that’s not a robe…it’s a toga…the kind of thing the folks who would eventually snuff Jesus would wear. What the hell?)

And of course, there are the animals. Animals are voyeurs now? Gawking giraffes? Maliciously monitoring monkeys? Peeking parrots?  And that tiger that’s trying to look nonchalant?  You just know he’s got the side-eye thing going on.

Words fail.  This is how Watchtower Magazine is going to go when it switches to porn.

Final note: I just found out you can put this masterpiece on layaway…just like the swells at Wal-Mart!

Growing up in Florida: Ducks

Duck muscovys
What are you looking at…are you looking at me?

I watched a duck have a heart attack once. True story. In Florida we had lots of “lakes” that were really there for storm runoff. They were nasty, stagnant ponds. Some, like Crescent Lake were nice, but in the 70s, they were all pretty rank. But, ducks seemed to like them. Also, the retirees liked to feed them so they got really fat.*

Anyway, one big ol’ buck duck decided he needed some Daisy Duck action and proceeded to mount the apple of his eye. Daisy said, “hold on there stud…you don’t get onto this A-ticket ride with just a compliment. You need to prove yourself. To which she led him on a merry chase around the “lake”. She’d stop, he’d waddle with his little duck dick hanging out (Really…disgusting, horrifying…yes, really) and ZOOM, she’d be off again. This went on for about 30 minutes until she seemed to say, “ok lover…you look like you got the goods. Hop on.” He did hop on in a sort of panting duck fashion and proceed to make his contribution to the continuance of the species. Just then he stopped…looked up…and fell over like a felled tree. Dead. Daisy looked him over, did the duck version of “meh” and went off to seek another duck with which to fulfill the biological imperative.

One hour later an alligator ate the duck’s corpse.

I was only 12 at the time. Had I been  older I might have understood a little more about the nature of relationships.

*I learned today that the ducks were Muscovy ducks…which don’t so much run to fat, but absolutely sprint to it. Kind of like truck driver ducks.