Actual phone conversations.

The caller says he's lookin' for a Chevy Truck rearend.

I tell him we handle Ford parts and don't have any of 'em around here.

He's quiet. He coughs. He breathes into the phone.

So I say it again.

"Oh, I thought you said you were gonna go get somebody."

Yeah. Week of Mondays.

About that beeping sound.

Okay, okay, that beeping sound is me backin' up. Don't worry, I'm doin' it more carefully than that drunk on that fork lift.

A faithful reader... No, wait, the most faithful reader I have, the only one who gets to see me naked, has informed me that there's a little more information out there than I suspected on this whole wax thing from my last post. I considered just deleting the post, but I figured this was a better way to go.

Clay did the homework, and found that "in a pinch," a candle apparently will work in order to "wax a rail to grind on."

So, I'm backin' off a little bit.

But not completely. I still maintain that the tiny little sloped patch of parking lot just Northwest of where I park my car is not "a rail to grind on" -- it's about a three inch rise over about an eighteen inch run, it is not a rail or a curb.

I also still maintain that the oxy/acetylene torch is a fairly specialized industrial tool, and not something for some tool to be using to melt candles into a hubcap with.

While I'm on that topic, I also maintain that a sand blasting cabinet is also a fairly specialized industrial tool, and probably not something for some tool to be letting a kid sand blast the paint off of that toy car that came with the Sonic "Wacky Pack."

The fork lift is back in park, now I'm goin' to bed.

More later... _\,,/

Same vs. Different vs. Same.

Friday night while channel-surfing, Clay landed on MTV, a channel I really haven't watched in a long, long time -- so long I'm not even sure what number it is. Lately if I have the remote, I'm usually either on 249 (Comedy Central) or 810 (XM's X-Country), or flipping through the "guide" looking for something that doesn't involve screaming brides or mysterious illnesses. I also love "The Travel Channel," but I don't know where it is either, I just have to flip 'til I stumble onto it. Maybe I should take notes...

MTV, through the magic of re-runs, was showing the exact same episode of "Jackass" that first caught my eye that afternoon in 2000 or 2001, the episode with the shopping carts. Or is there more than one with the shopping carts?? Anyhow... I vividly remember ploppin' in the living room of the little white house up on Yukon Avenue for a rare moment alone in front of the TV with the cable remote. My channel-surfing came to a stop when I saw those guys shoving each other's carts over curbs and into bushes. "I'm Johnny Knoxville, welcome to Jackass!" (Huh-oh, what it that was Gooogle-bait?)

I'm that chick who's been seen more than once ooh-ing-and-aaahh-ing over Matchbox cars -- I am not ashamed to tell ya that "my inner child" is a spoiled little eight-year-old boy, or, well, a mini-van load of spoiled little eight-year-olds, there might be a girl or two in there, but they're so tomboy they fit right in playin' with the boys. I ain't afraid to tell ya there's a kid in me who thinks it might be huge fun to go sailin' down and enormous hill in (or on) whatever I can find that has wheels on it -- but there's also junior-high kid who crashed a couple bikes, the highschooler with the boogered-up knee, and the nineteen-year-old me who took a pretty good hit to the head and knows that pain is not cool...

I guess I'm just over that edge of knowing that "Hey, there's no way to steer or control a shopping cart, so I ain't doin' that!" but I can certainly get a kick out of watching other people do it!

It's stupid, it's pointless, it's semi-dangerous, but let's face it -- it's hilarious!

I can't say I'm a serious "fan" of the show, but if I'm flippin' through channels and that's what I land on, I'll usually stay. I saw the movie twice in the dollar theater and I bought the DVD out of a clearance bin. I have watched, I have laughed...

Some of the things I've seen on "Jackass" have brought me to the questions that are on my mind today.

Today is a HoMeSkOoL dAy, and the younger kid is, through the magic of re-runs, doin' some of the same nutty stuff his older brother did a while back. I still have some unanswered questions.

In all my viewings of the crazy stuff we see on "Jackass," I have seen lots of "famous" dudes playin' with skateboards, but I've yet to see any of 'em using any skateboard wax.

Wax comes in many, many different forms, produced for many, many different uses, and candles are only the beginning. The wax that melts off candles won't yank the hair off of your legs, the wax that makes a car shiny won't burn to smell like strawberries.

The strange phenomena in the air here lately is not only due to the workings of "kid logic," it's because their dad isn't interested in the difference either.

In all the times I've seen people riding skateboards, I have not ever seen anybody rubbing candles into concrete. Nobody but the HoMeSkOoLeRz, that is, who have made greazy spots on the concrete bumpers, curbs, and anywhere there's a bit of a slope in the parking lot. That big red pillar candle out of the bathroom is completely gone, turned into a brown gooey mess on the concrete.

Surely I'm not nuts... Surely the wax goes on the board, and not on the concrete, right? Surely it's not the same wax that's used for birthday candles, right?

Surely?

Well, then I guess your guess is as good as mine when it comes to figuring out why a ten-year-old was able to persuade his forty-some-year old dad to light up an oxy/acetylene torch in order to melt dozens of broken pieces of candles and Crayolas into a hubcap.

Say a little prayer that the folks at OSHA are busy catching drunks on forklifts, please.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I've got phones to answer...

Racing Philosophies At Work In Everyday Life...

I know I've said it before, but it bears mentioning again. If you put twenty-some racers out on a track together, even if they are being careful, shit happens, it just does. For me, havin' somebody come say "Hey, sorry 'bout that," will go a long way. Be a grown-up about it, suck it up, walk over here, stick your hand out and talk to me about it. I'd much rather shake your hand and make a friend than wonder what kind of no-balls ay-hole would knock the shit outta my car and not even care enough to talk to me afterward. I might be pissed off, but I can get over it pretty quick if you'll just say something instead of leavin' me wondering if you're scared to come near me or just too stupid to know any better.

Last night we had dinner at Senor Salsa in Skiatook, and it was an excellent dinner, as it almost always is. The queso was heavenly, the chicken enchiladas were superb, and we had a lovely time. As we were getting up to leave, a friendly blonde-haired lady hurried in and came right to our table -- she asked if we had a white Lincoln.

Gah, that's never a good sign, 'cause they never say "I'm in love with your car and I want it right now! I have 150% of book value in cash and I'll give you a ride home!" I thought of about a million different things, like the burning Blazer from highschool, the black Taurus I saw come outta gear and roll across the aisle into the side of another car at "The Dirty Wal-Mart," and the grey Neon that rolled across the parking lot of Michael's and narrowly missed a pedestrian before bouncing to a stop between two other parked cars. I thought of other frightening situations I haven't ever seen first-hand; like a meteorite on the roof or a garbage truck parked halfway up on the hood or a wanna-be "gangsta" hangin' half in and half out of the car and bleeding to death from a cut to the jugular while attempting to break a window out.

Apparently the friendly blonde-haired lady and her companion, along with another couple who were also leaving the restaurant saw someone in a "red SUV" back into my car, stop, get out to look, spit on their hand and rub it, and then get back in their red SUV and drive away. They spit on their hand and rubbed it and then drove away without leaving a note or anything.



Are there any Adam Sandler fans reading this?? "Spit on your hand and stroke my car at a medium pace..."

I know, I know, shit happens, anybody might be having a bad day or driving something unfamiliar or had a fussy baby in the back seat or whatever, but come on! At least leave a note! Acknowledge! Apologize! Just say something!!

It may not be a huge scrape; hey, at least they didn't tear the whole bumper off, but still, they could've left a note or waited two minutes for us to come outside.

I've no doubt there would be a lot less anger involved if they'd just been honest about it instead of spitting, rubbing, and thinking they got away with something.

Is there no Character anymore?

I'm thinkin' that'll be the first letter they get from me -- just a picture of the scrape, with the post-it from the lady who got their tag number, and "Character means doing the right thing, even when nobody's watching."

When it comes right down to it, there's always somebody watching.