Tire Issues

Since I'm making two car road trips this week --- a short hop to Austin on Tuesday for work and a long haul to Colorado next weekend to ski. I checked my Mustang for road worthiness on Sunday. Fluids and belts are A.O.K. But I noticed that the inside tread on my tires are starting to shred meaning big chucks of rubber are starting to come off the tire. Great. The tires are Pirellis --- a European brand that are found on European cars. The Europeans are supposed to know what they're doing. And, obviously, they don't. Europeans, my friends, make crap tires. Tires are not supposed to come apart after 25,000 miles, especially when you take care of them like I do through maintaining the proper air pressure and rotating and balancing them regularly. There's still tread left on them --- at lest the tread that isn't coming off in chunks. So I'm hoping the tire dealer will take mercy on me and allow me to cash in on the warranty and give me a new set of rubber for half price. Otherwise I'll be the guy on the side of the road, cursing the good name of Pirelli while putting the stupid looking donut on my car to take the place of an exploded tire.

Loading Up

Instead of putting up Christmas decorations like I should have been doing, I spent the weekend loading a bunch of my CDs onto my computer.

This activity has forced me to get reacquainted with my music collection. I'm an avid CD buyer. However, once I've bought a CD, I'll listen to it in my car for a period of months, then it gets shelved --- sometimes for a period of years --- until I decide I want to hear it again. I rarely use the CD player on my home stereo system --- or my home stereo system for that matter. And rarely will I listen to a entire CD --- my player is almost always on shuffle when it is on. But most often, I listen to music on my computer by plugging into satellite radio.

Maybe with my collection on the computer, I'll listen to music I've deemed worthy by spending money on it. I've loaded 60 CDs so far and I'm not even close to being finished.

And I've realized one thing through this process: I own a lot of Nick Heyward CDs.

My Car the Movie Star

Sometimes my freakishness about movies and cars collide.

The best example is my dearly departed 1969 Mustang Mach 1, which I bought in high school, restored to its original show room condition and sold twenty years later when I got married. It was Gulfstream Aqua, a color Ford only made for two years, 1968 and 1969, and it had a gold stripe. It was a fairly rare color combination.

Imagine my freakout when I watched Harold and Maude for the first time just a few years after I bought my car. Some people obsess over this movie. However, I only obsess about one minute long scene in this movie. It's the one where Maude is leaving a hospital or some downtown building with Harold. Maude gets in the driver's seat of a car and Harold gets in the passenger seat and they and peel out away from the building. Harold later learns that Maude is jacking the car. Sure enough, that car is a Gulfstream Aqua 1969 Mustang Mach 1 with a gold stripe. I must have rewound that scene 200 times to bask in the full glory of my car's appearance in a major Hollywood release --- or what I thought was my exact car. But on further review, the Harold and Maude car had black interior seats. Mine had white. Damn.

Broken Glass

The most overtly illegal activity I engage in on a regular basis is entering abandoned houses to take photographs and marvel at elegant rot. This Victorian house in Mineral Wells may be one of the coolest ones I've ever been in. It has tons of kick ass wood molding, pocket doors, and stained glass --- most of which is broken. I thought of that house recently because someone told me yesterday that the hotel in the background of this photo has been sold and may finally get restored. It's the Baker Hotel, which is one of the most incredible stuctures in this state --- the f'ing Alamo included. Redoing this massive place will be a chore. It'll cost about a billion dollars to put this place back together. And when it's finished you've got the problem of who in the hell wants to go to Mineral Wells to see it? Me, I guess.

Memorial

Brian Jackson responded to a domestic dispute with shots fired in East Dallas last week. It's the kind of crime that cops in my neighborhood deal with every day. And it goes something like this: blue collar laborer --- whose friends say is a decent human being when sober --- gets drunk as hell and turns into the proverbial asshole. On this night, drunk asshole decides he needs to pay a visit to his ex-girlfriend, who didn't show up at the club he wanted her to go to. He goes to girlfriend's house really late, finds her there, starts yelling and pulls out his pistol and starts firing shots in the ceiling. For reasons only he knows, he leaves, after miraculously managing not to kill anybody. He and his buddy drive around for a while and notice that a ton of cops are at ex-girlfriend's house. Buddy tells asshole they should not stop, but asshole, being an asshole, says he's going to stop. And if the cops get in his way, that's their problem. So he gets out and starts displaying his drunk asshole full plumage. And he makes good on his promise, firing at will at the cops. And one of the asshole's bullets finds its way underneath the arm of officer Brian Jackson where his bullet proof vest can't protect him. He dies, becoming the 76th Dallas police officer since 1888 to die in the line of duty. Jackson was 28 years old.

In recent years, most Dallas police officers have died in traffic accidents. But I bet significant portion of those 76 dead police officers have given their lives protecting Dallas residents from the most common of criminals here --- the drunk asshole.

Sweater Meat

So, since it's cold, finally, I get to bust out the winter wear. I love sweaters, especially cardigans. I love them because you can wear stupid rock shirts, of which I own too many of, underneath. Sadly, I only own one cardigan. It's Kurt Cobain green, and I purchased this stunning number in 1988 at Chess King, long before Kurt got unplugged on MTV and made the look famous. The cardigan, which has a bunch of designs and crap on the back, is dated as hell. But I still like it. Still, I think I'm going to break down and buy another one, hopefully one that's extremely grandfatherly looking. Won't you be my neighbor, jerk?

Senseo, not that Greato

Outside my office, there's a big truck that is dispensing free cups of java produced by something called a Senseo machine. It's sort of a fake barista machine that uses little pads of coffee to give you a nice strong almost black brew. I believe they're trying to get all of the downtown coffee addicts like me to use their new juice by giving some away, as well as to the line of homeless who want some too but aren't likely going to have the 70 bucks for the machine or the electricity to run it. So I'm on my second cup of free Senseo and I want to like it. I tend to like stuff that's free. But I can't get over the fact that this product doesn't taste real fresh. Sorry Phillips Corporation, but I'm just going to have to keep grinding my own beans and brewing up my mud like the rest of the world's coffee snobs. Nice try though.

Song That Makes Me Sing

john_clarke will sing a song on your ass. Oh yes he will. It doesn't happen that often, but certain tunes will make me contort my face and croon at the top of my lungs with total disregard for who may see me tooling down the road in my red American automobile. The Specials "A Message To You Rudy" is one of those songs. "Stop your messing around. Better think of your fuuuchaaaaa." And on and on until I crescendo with "A message to yooo Ruuuudeeee!"

I can't think of any new songs that make me do this. Maybe it's because I don't know any words to new songs.

The Airline Shuffle

I flew roundtrip to Denver using Hotwire.com, this super discount airline internet ticket agency that gets you anywhere you want to go with a catch --- they don't tell you what time your flight will be until after you've chosen the dates and paid. I got lucky and wound up with really reasonable travel times for about $200 --- super cheap for Dallas to Denver.

On the way home on a totally full 10:30 a.m. flight, I had to ride bitch --- the seat in the middle. I hate being in the middle. Yet for some unexplainable reason, two guys were holding tickets for the same isle seat next to me. The stewardess had to sort out that mess so she asked for volunteers to take the next flight in exchange for a free travel voucher. My hand shot up immediately.

All I had to do was wait around in the airport for another two hours. I even got a window seat on the later flight. So next time, john_clarke will be flying anywhere in the lower 48 states on the man. And you better believe I'm choosing a trip that costs more than $200. Thanks be to the big airline.

Job Well Done

Acting like a couple of 19 year olds who don't know when to quit, McCarley and I wandered out onto the patio to see if there was anything left in the keg from the previous nights party. The cool Denver night air kept the keg nice and icy over night. Sure enough, there was just enough slightly flat beer in the bottom of the container for two more draws. Somehow, this Miller product tasted even better at 10 a.m. on Sunday morning than it did the night before.

Violent Guitarist

During the party, Sach staked out a spot on a couch in the corner, picked up a guitar and showed everybody what he had. He was even kind enough to seranade me with a Smiths song, because he knows I'm a big fan. But when I dared to mention that he'd missed a chord on a famous Johnny Marr riff, he smashed his accoustic axe over my head.

Malt Liquor Gets the Job Done Quicker

I traveled to Denver last weekend for Will's housewarming/birthday party. Not wanting to show up empty handed, I did what any well mannered party guest from Gaston Avenue would do. I came with a fine assortment of malt beverages to be enjoyed by all.

I'm pretty sure that the next time I visit my high mountain friend, these three selections will be still be waiting for me in his fridge.

Rainbow Crockery

There's a lot of things that are impressive about Will's sweet new love pad in Denver --- brand new hardwoods, granite countertops, four! count them, four! toilets. But I have to say, I happened upon the coolest thing about Will's house by mistakenly opening up the wrong cabinet when I was looking for a glass for a cool drink of water. Inside was an impressive set of vintage Fiestaware. Apparantly, Will has eaten on these plates since he was a kid and his Mom decided to unload the whole set on him. Yeah, so it's kind of girly to go on and on about china, but these are some bad ass plates.

john_clarke, killer

I bought a copy of Battlefield:1942 at Target for 10 bucks on Sunday. I might as well bought some crack and a pipe because every day this week after work, I've spent hours hunched over my computer keyboard shooting Nazis on an electronic battlefield. This game is a first person shooter with a lot of twists. You run along a battlefield with an army and you can choose to be five different types of soldiers. The game has been an introspective experience for me. It's taught me exactly what kind of killer I resemble. Here's what I've learned through playing fake soldier.

1. Assault gun soldier: This is the first soldier I tried out. He carries a machine gun and is expected to charge ahead of the troops and take on the enemy at short range. Machine guns are good right? However, I don't have the stomach for this job. I'm forced to get a little closer to the evil enemy than makes me comfortable. Besides, I die a lot. And that hurts, even though the pain is only on my computer screen.

2. Bazooka Soldier: This guy carries a big tube on his shoulder and launches rockets at tanks. For a bit of overkill, he can launch the big boom rocket at an enemy soldier. This is fun. I enjoy explosions. But when the shit comes down and four enemy soldiers bum rush me, I have to drop the rocket launcher and reach for a pistol --- my only other real weapon. This makes me feel extremely inadequate.

3. Medic Soldier: The medic carries a light machine gun and a bag 'o medicine that restores health, to himself and other soldiers. Ideally, in a multiplayer game, the medic fixes up teammates who've been shot. But in the single player version which I always play, where all the fellow soldiers are robots, rarely if ever does a robot call for a medic. So I end up dosing myself up with my own medicine while the robots die. This is too selfish for my own conscience. Besides, Private Ryan would never do this.

4. Engineer Soldier: This guy carries explosives and a rifle. He's supposed to fix tanks and blow up large objects. I have yet to try this guy out because I just don't want to fix tanks driven by robots. Also, I'm sure placing the explosives takes some precision and timing. Again, no patience for that.

5. Sniper Soldier: This soldier carries a rifle with a scope and a pair of binoculars that allow him to call for an artillery assault. He hangs back, watches and picks off bad dudes from a very safe distance. Ahhh, this is much more like it. I can fight a war without actually getting dirty. So, more often than not, john_clarke plays the sniper role. What a wimp.

Convenient Stores

Not long ago, a head shop called "Puff 'N Stuff" opened for business in my ever changing neighborhood. Weeks later, a Ci Ci's Pizza opened directly across the street. This couldn't be a coincidence.

Broke House

If I was really broke, but still wanted to live in a cool old house, I'd move to rural Texas. There's tons of them in small towns all across this state. And they're incredibly cheap. Check out this one in Linden, home town of The Eagles's own Don Henley and the oldest courthouse in Texas. This house has a bad roof and foundation issues. But it has a dual fireplace that splits off into two rooms, diamond shaped windows, a wrap around front porch, a sunroom and a huge kitchen. The asking price? $12,000.

Idiot on the Run

So you're on death row and want to bust out of the big house. You've heard that the easiest way to make a break is while in the county jail during a transfer for a court hearing. You arrange for help from the outside. And that helper slips you some clothes and a fake badge in a county jail visitation room. You slip on the clothes and tell the guards that you're an investigator for the attorney general's office and it's time for you to go home. And you walk out of the doors of the county lock up, breathing fresh air for the first time in a decade. It's the most brilliant escape in the history of prison breaks. Hell of a story for one condemned prisoner in Houston.

But don't confuse a brilliant prison break with a brilliant person. Instead of laying low, not calling attention to himself and finding a new life, this retard gets hammered on cheap liquor starts acting a fool and gets busted while talking on a pay phone. Lack of self control is what got Mr. I-shot-my-ex-girlfriend-and-her-friend-over-petty-jealousy in trouble in the first place. Have fun riding the needle pal.

Corporate Lunch

When I go out to eat during the work week, I usually go to a place where you stand in line to order. I almost always eat alone. And standing in line with office drones reinforces my solitary lunch eating habits because there's nothing worse than the conversation that happens between fellow employees at lunch time. It's always crap like this:

"Mario from accounting says that HR told him they're going to promote that Robbins kid up to corporate!"

"So after the Scarsdale assessment, we have to realign every single Junkins processor to design specs!"

Rarely is the conversation about movies or music or the opposite or similar sex. It's as if all that these people have in common is a death sentence of a job.

So I eat alone. All by myself.

False Alarm

The smell is back.

Shit.

Stench

When I got home yesterday, Karen told me "You have to come to the stairwell." OK . . . .

So I go to the stairwell. And there, I was hit by what is a familiar overpowering smell in our house --- death.

The summer before last, we had something die underneath our house. It was in a space we could not get to. Lucky for us, the smell was contained to one room. But unlucky for us, we learned that when something is rotting underneath your house and you have to tough it out, it can take up to a month for the smell to fade.

So the stairwell stench is kind of upsetting because the smell was noticable in many rooms, not just one. I began to investigate. I got in the crawlspace of our house and didn't smell anything. I got in the attic and didn't smell anything either. I called a pest control guy and he guessed the dead thing was probably between the floor --- you know, a place that is impossible for any human to travel to. Crap. I'm not going to tear up my house and do $10,000 dollars worth of work to avoid a bad smell for a month.

I actually had trouble sleeping last night because the sickly scent of rigor mortis was in the air.

And this morning I got up, fearing the trip downstairs for coffee would make me retch. But the house had been blessed --- the smell was completely gone. Good vibes on Gaston Avenue brutha.

Homeless Politics

Of all of the really boring ballot propositions that Dallasites are considering, there's only one that's generated yard signs and campaign mail outs. It's called Proposition 14 which would establish a new homeless center near downtown. The downtown businesses hate this proposition because they're sick of the homeless who scare away all of their customers and break their windows at night. They want the homeless center somewhere else --- like far away, maybe close to some McMansion-laded suburb. I completely sympathize with this concern.

However, I voted for it. There are probably a lot more people who really need the homeless center that don't hassle me for change while I'm walking to work downtown than those that do. And even if they put the homeless center in Kansas, it wouldn't stop the hardcore street level bum rush.

So I'm coming back from voting and right outside my office are a bunch of homeless people campaigning for the homeless center, passing out fliers and holding up bombastic signs that say stuff like "Don't Support Corporate Apartheid!!!" Sorry, but what Snuffy, Lester and Wildcard fail to realize that people on both sides of this vote want a more bum free downtown. If I were you, I'd put the sign down if you want a new homeless center.