21 Jan
New Website
I’ve got a few working (and non-working) ideas in my head right now. I need to process what’s going on in my brain.
To keep up on what I’m writing, please visit this website and watch for updates: http://www.rosecolouredlife.com/writings/blog/
1 Dec
212,343.7
I decided to start documenting my memories of Farrah when she hit 212,343 miles. Not too long ago, I hit a pretty nasty dip coming out of the Waco post office. I was turning left when we hit the dip and it felt like I bottomed out my front suspension. From that point forward, every time I turned left, there was audible, palpable knock. I decided to find out what was wrong with Fairuza and treat her to a little TLC. After consulting my Chilton’s manual, I concluded that my front bearings were incredibly loose – I also changed my spark plugs.
My history of maintenance with the truck could fill up a small pamphlet… of one pages. I’ve changed my alternator, serpentine belt, spark plugs, starter, and R-134a. I’ve also paid someone else to change the fly-wheel and a different starter.
When I bought the truck in July 2002, I went out on two dates almost immediately. On the second date (with a girl whom I’ve forgotten), I went to Charleston’s, Barnes and Noble, then the movie “Road to Perdition”. Excellent movie, horrible date. It was one of the worst dates ever. While at Charleston’s, I asked said date if she read much and wanted to go to Barnes and Noble to look around (two of my favorite past-times). She answered, “I have to read ‘How to Win Friends and Influence People’ for class.” and “That sounds like fuuuunnn.” She was obviously lying to the second question. I asked her if “How to Win Friends” was the famous one from Dale Carnegie and she said she didn’t know who wrote it. She wasn’t lying to that answer. In retrospect, I should have seen this as a horrible foreshadowing of the evening to come. After the movie was over, we returned to my truck. When I turned the key, there was this horrible scrape. Inquisitively, I turned the key again; to my dismay, I heard another scrape. I tried it one more time and the engine turned over. I was so relieved by the F-bomb’s resilience so that I could end this dog-crap of a date. I didn’t have the starter looked at. I didn’t really care either. I’ve always been passive about fixing things. People kept telling me, “you need to get that looked at” and they were right. I finally changed the starter when my truck hit 190,000 miles. It worked fantastically for 15,000 miles, until I had someone change the starter and fly-wheel. Not to sound like a commercial for Ford but I think that Ford got it right on their trucks. They got it wrong on their domestic cars but they got it very right on their trucks. I would be happy to have another Ford truck, or a foreign-inspired Ford car (see Fiesta).
These newest blog entries are a moral imperative, of sorts. Flenore is on her death bed and we owe it to her to pay our respects before her passing. I included the eulogy and many wonderful thoughts of my grandmother on my blog, so this is only right. At 212,343, she’s making a bunch of noises. She sorta shakes and farts as if she has palsy and held in too many farts. She’s old now; she doesn’t need to act like a lady anymore. She just lets it rip, as she’s earned the right. I’ve learned enough lessons from her, my only job now is to forgive her shortcomings and make her final days more comfortable.
9 Nov
the beginning
I was 19 when I bought the truck. I had just completed my freshmen year of college at Northwestern Oklahoma State University in Alva, Oklahoma. Like many Oklahoma high school jocks, I went to college to play football. From 16 to this point in time, my mode of transportation and self-discovery was in the form of a 1990 Ford Ranger. I say “self-discovery” because that’s just what transportation is, isn’t it. I came into my own in that Ranger. As a fatty, I was always awkward around girls. I really didn’t know much about them but as I started to become less thin I was forced to know them more. At the time, I was open to the challenge and met it head on – sometimes with success; but more often, with failure. Instead of looking internally, at my immaturity, I felt the best way to resolve my awkwardness with girls would be to get a new pick-up.
I asked my dad to float me some money to buy the car and he taught me a valuable lesson. “Riley,” he said gruffly (he always says things gruffly), “If your truck is running and you’re not playing ball, then you can pay for your own damn truck!” I’d never thought of it like that. I already had a job at the bike shop and was living at home. There was no reason I couldn’t do it on my own. After two months of looking, I settled on a 1999 Ford F-150 with 45,000 miles. It was a black step-side with a 4.2 liter V-6. I didn’t want the V-8, knowing that the insurance rate would be slightly higher and thinking that a V-8 would just make me look like a douche, (I was already trying to shake off the jock image). My mom co-signed on a loan for me and helped me through my first significant period of buyer’s remorse.
The day before I “picked up” the pick-up, I went through my dad’s tape collection to find the perfect road tunes, I settled on The Best of Hank Williams, Jr. and Alabama. I blasted down I-35 screaming, “Roll on Highway, Roll on along; roll on daddy, till you get back home.” I don’t know why, but I’ve never loved Alabama’s music except when it’s played on tape. The sound of the tape has just enough grainy sound to cancel out the corniness of Randy Owen’s “Roll on!” There’s also something to be said for the texture and sound of Take Me Down, my absolute favorite Alabama song, when played through a tape deck. There is less sex with the polished tone of the compact disc. I often wonder how country music listeners still reproduce with today’s music; the music is too glossy; and then there’s Toby Keith.
I would soon find that the neither the truck nor the Alabama would help me with women. If anything, it both confirmed and negated many of my juvenile presuppositions of the female race. Many are just as superficial as I thought, and I’m not interested in any of those. On the same note, I was just as superficial as many people saw me, and that needed to change, too. It wasn’t about discovering women, though was it. Or wasn’t it? No, I’m pretty sure it was about discovering me. It was about discovering, The Flaming Lips, Wilco, Queens of the Stone Age. It was about Diane Rehm, Terry Gross, NPR and PRI. It was about Three Day Sabbatical, A degree in Economics, an MBA, a wife, and a future. Through driving that truck some 150,000 miles, I’ve come to believe that the more you know about yourself, the more you know about other people. And, the more comfortable you become with the world outside of your home the less comfortable you become with the world inside your home. I don’t know if this is a memoir; it may just be a reflection. Either way, I’m confident that I will confide too much and type something that is unsettling to me; but that’s what I’ve experienced in that truck. Comfort zones are astoundingly hazardous to growth and that’s what I intend to do in these entries, grow.
23 May
This little piggy went to the market
If you are a regular follower of this blog, then you’ll notice that this is the first blog I’ve written since, like, November. If you’re not a regular follower of this blog, you’ll not care but you can look at the previous blog, below, and see that it says November.
WHY?
Unlike “the market,” I’m a self-regulator. I know that too much of a good thing, can be so I cut everyone off the teat of my genius.
That’s not true… not even close.
The truth of the matter is that I was entering finals of my last semester, graduating, job searching, job interviewing, working a little on the side, working none on the side, getting turned down for some jobs, reading, looking for a new apartment, finding a new apartment, cleaning out my trailer because some hillbillies left it in bad condition and generally living life.
I found a new gig, I work for the federal government now. I won’t say specifically what I do, but George Shinseki is my boss by a few tiers.
Since I have no real reason to quit blogging, let’s talk about growing up…
By the time you read this, I’ll be officially closer to 30 than 20. I figure it’s time for some big-boy shorts so I’m ditching all my shorts with cargo pockets and holes. And if there’s a cargo short with holes in the crotch, forget about it. I went to Kohl’s because… why the hell not? They have a crap load of cargoes; too many. After some preliminary searching, I found some shorts that weren’t cargo; they were grown up shorts. They were also double-pleated; they were too grown up. If you just read that line, looked down and noticed you have double-pleated shorts, I’m not having a go at you or your shorts; If you were born prior to 1962, I don’t think there’s much of a problem with double-pleated shorts. For me, however, double pleats are a problem. It goes back to what I said earlier about “too much of a good thing”; except it’s the opposite. If too much of a good thing, is a bad thing; is too much of a bad thing, a good thing? No, two wrongs don’t make a right and two pleats don’t make a plump man cooler. I already have a hard enough time controlling the rate of expansion of my forehead as well as the growth of back hair, I don’t need double-pleated shorts to make me look any older than nature has already.
It might not be the best blog in the world, but, this is a taster and I’m rusty. Cut me some slack and I promise it’ll get better.
