I had every intention of writing on Thursday and Friday.
Really. I did.
I even mapped out what the journals would be this week. Which is likely the source of why everything went wrong.
I wanted to write a review about a book that was given to me by one of my cousins when I was much younger but not so young that I couldn’t appreciate it’s content. This is also a cousin who – because she wanted to show that she could trust me – snuck me into an R-rated movie ; specifially the first Robocop. It wasn’t any attempt to get rid of me because she was babysitting me and she was on a date. She just thought that I would appreciate the flick more than I would whatever else it was she wanted to see. Maybe she was seeing a guy, I’ll never know and I bet she doesn’t even remember it. But Robocop remains one of my favourite movies, moreso because of the circumstances than the movie itself.
I wanted to do a review of my friend’s photos. There was only one I was considering, but now, I think there is two and maybe three I want to review. Now, remember, I title them so I can remember them – I don’t think she titles them. So, if you ever go to her site and ask for ones that I have named, you will have to describe the picture to her, because she probably called it something else. ‘My’ pictures to review are “Word of God in The Face Of Man”, “Heroine / Aldar Rok”, and “Icarus”. Yeah. Those are the three I will have to do next week.
I wanted to do a short journal entry about my two cats, Max and Mulligan. Just because, you know, they are my guys and I love them very much. I generally call them The Orange One and The Fat One, but their ‘given’ names are Max and Mulligan. Max because, well, my wife named him because he looked like a Max. Mulligan because when we saw him he reminded me of the opening sentence of Ulysses.
“Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.”
Mulligan is a very big cat. I”ll post a picture of my daughter strangling him later on.
And finally, I wanted to do an obituary for my cars. Or more of a review of the ones that I have wrecked. Funny thing is, even before the BMW got wrecked, I was already thinking about this. Mostly because, when I think about it, most of my concious life has in some way, involved a car. It is almost as if my life is a transition from one car to the next. I’m sure that many people can say that, but I’m talking about me here.
What I’m reminded of is something I read about in some class at one time or another – that if we were remotely viewed from outer space by aliens who had no concept of humanity, they could rightly consider us slaves of either our pets or our cars. I would be of the second group.
I came home in a Chevy Nova, my uncles car (because I think, when I was born, Dad had to work and saw me a day or two later – I would have to ask him for confirmation). I obsessed over a Chevelle that was parked in my grandmother’s garage for most of my adolescent life – a car owned by a friend of the family that I believe has passed into someone else’s hands and is still roadworthy.
My cousin Paul ‘willed’ me his Dodge Dart, a car he held together with spit and bindertwine – I never did anything with that because I don’t think I was quite thirteen when he died.
My first hands on with a car was building a Ford 302 into an AMC Gremlin – the paint job came from cans of Canadian Tire spray paint. I remember crying when I snapped one of the cylinder head bolts when I was torquing it down and I remember the ingenius (and I do mean ingenius – I will never forget how he pulled it off) way Dad got the bolt out. And I was crying.
I remember having to replace the universal joint in Dad’s GMC Van when I thought it was cool to do a neutral drop when the van was full of people – I remember the thunking noise that the driveshaft made when it almost came through the floor.
I remember Dad’s Dodge Colt station wagon – one of the nicest cars we ever owned. Really a beaut.
I remember all of the cars Dad drove when he sold Ford at Shannahan Motors over at Sheppard and Warden – most especially I remember the white, convertible Ford Mustang GT he picked me up in from school. I remember going on car transfers with him – when one dealership would have a car he wanted to sell and he would trade cars from lots to go and get it – and he pointed out how he could safely smoke in the new cars if he hung his arm out the car window. This was a habit I got into when I smoked – never used the ashtray ; but the stink of cigarette smoke still lingered in them. I couldn’t stand the stale stench once I quit and Febreezed the shit out of the fabric to get rid of it.
I remember lots of things with lots of cars and it just seems that, when I reflect on it.
Every car, save 2, I have ever driven were Dad’s.
Every car I have every wrecked, was Dad’s.
The first car I ever owned I still have, though I haven’t driven it in 7 years – a 84 Fiero
I never would have afforded my second car were it not for my wife
I cannot think of a period of time in my life where I cannot relate it to a car or something that has gone wrong with a car.
Other than that, I don’t got much to say. But I do have next week’s journals already mapped out. Matter of writing them, now. And then, when those are done, maybe I can get to some real writing.