rednecks

Sheena’s Saga, Historical Lessons, and More Trolling for Ephemera

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Sheena is to canine intelligence as Larry, Moe and Curly are to rocket science.

Suffice to say that I am an incorrigible dog lover, and I regard my dogs in higher esteem than a lot of people I know.  That doesn’t speak well for a good portion of humanity, though it does speak well for dogs.  Even when I was a little kid I could get along with dogs just fine but I had a lot harder time dealing with the little bastards that used to chase me down and beat the hell out of me.   When the neighborhood kids used to chase me, if I could make it there in time, and I could climb the fence fast enough, I would hide out in the neighbor’s Rottie’s run.  The only thing I had to worry about from Rex (the Rottie) was being slobbered on and maybe a flea bite or two.   He was probably a 120# dog, and he scared the living bejeezus out of most of the kids, but I could sit down on the ground with him and play with him.  He had a big, thick rope with knots on the end in his run and he loved a good game of tug.  Sometimes he would let me win.

Dad caught me hiding out in the dog run one day and just about flipped out.  Rex didn’t like Dad too much, but I could do anything with him (Rex, that is.)

While Rottweilers look formidable, most Rotties are slobbery big babies- as long as you’re not intimidated by them, that is.

Sheena is a genuine charity case though.   She has Issues.   However, like Rex the Rottie, she’s large (75#) and looks intimidating (the kids in the Drunk & Domestic apartments behind the body shop think she’s a wolf, which is fine with me) but Sheena is not a dog I would consider to be a threat.   She generally regards humans as non-threatening, and she is all about making friends and getting food.  Even though Sheena is generally a dog I would put in the “harmless” category, I have to quantify the danger factor when I talk about dogs.  Their taxonomic name: canis lupus familiaris (= “house wolf”) says it all.  Domestic dogs- with all their variations in size, color, coat and demeanor- are merely a subspecies of the grey wolf (canis lupus lupus) and even after 15,000 years of domestication, we forget this fact to our peril.  Even the most non-threatening dog can be dangerous or even deadly given the right situation- but Sheena is a dog I would consider to be a very low risk to humans.

Sheena has nubbins for canine teeth and her incisors are worn to the bone from cage biting.  Her previous slack-jaw redneck idiot owners kept her in a 6X6 chain link pen and used her as a breeding machine.  By rights she should hate people, but she’s remarkably mellow. Strange people could break into my house, and Sheena would sit back and quietly observe the other two dogs tearing the invaders to shreds.  Clara and Lilo do not like unauthorized visitors, and either Jerry or I have to carefully introduce them to new people.  They are polite with people as long as either Jerry or I am around to supervise them, even if they don’t particularly like that person.  Even so, the only person we allow in the house if we aren’t there is Steve-o, because Clara and Lilo like him and will tolerate him in “their” house.   It’s a funny thing but I swear having him watch the dogs last year while I was in NC is part of the reason why I have my granddaughter. (I left them movies, but go figure…)  I can take any of my dogs to be boarded- Clara and Lilo are surprisingly compliant when they aren’t in their own territory, and all three of the girls have been perfect angels when they have had to stay at the Vet, but at $25 per day per dog…that ain’t happening in my world.  I don’t spend $75 a day on my own frigging motel room on the rare occasions I travel.   Usually I can find a good deal on a Days Inn on one of those travel websites, but it’s been awhile since I’ve had the luxury of pleasure travel.

Spot the Similarities: Boston, 1852 vs Arizona, 2012!

I  understand that people get their undies in a bunch about illegal immigration, and in these times of economic shittiness, as well as considering we have a presidential administration that doesn’t give a rat’s ass about preventing terrorism or upholding national security, I have to agree.  It is a matter of national security to keep terrorists, criminals and others who are a danger to society and a burden on the economy out of this country.  The American Patriot issue above from 1852 is disturbingly anti-Catholic, (I don’t necessarily go along with Catholicism in its entirety, but I have no problem with Catholics) but given that a good number of immigrants in 1852 were either Irish or Italian, the fact that they were foreign, that they were competing with local workers for jobs, that there were criminal elements involved and  they adhered to a “strange” religion didn’t help their cause.  Today, it doesn’t help the cause of Islam or the acceptance of Muslims that the perpetrators of 9-11 adhered to an extreme form of Islam.

I bet most of today’s high school students couldn’t pass the course offered at the Ford English School.

I don’t have a problem with legal immigration.  Henry Ford had a good model for that.  Learn English.  Assimilate into the prevailing culture.  Work and contribute to society.  Abide by the law.  The problem is that there is no set model for those who wish to come to this country and become legal citizens to follow.  There is no requirement for immigrants to learn the language or become gainfully employed.  When foreigners are allowed over here, they’re often given generous benefits for housing, starting businesses and other perks that are denied to the native-born.  Yeah, there’s a lot of resentment and fear toward illegals, a disdain for immigrants in general, and to a degree rightfully so.  Either follow the rules or go back to your third world hole.  Don’t bring the third world hole to us like Bill Clinton did when he brought half of Mogadishu to Central Ohio.

 

Sadly, weak leadership never leads anywhere good.  If only we would learn from the (bad) examples of former presidents Pierce and Buchanan.

I have bemoaned the fact for years that people have failed to learn from history.  Right now it would behoove the American public to learn from the weak leadership and atrocious policy making of the Pierce and Buchanan administrations of the 1850’s.  What people don’t understand is their poor leadership was a contributing factor to the Civil War.  Then again, most people have a very poor knowledge of 20th century history, let alone of the 19th century and earlier.

Granted, this country is not so much geographically divided as it is ideologically divided.   Weak (or should I say irresponsible and inept) leadership is exacerbating long standing ideological differences and creating a divide in this country every bit as venomous and as the ideological (and geographical) conflicts that lead to the Civil War.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls, indeed.

So Easily Entertained, Laments of the 13%, and Country Music IS Noise Pollution

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Those of us in the automotive industry aren’t exactly noted for being paragons of virtue, sad to say.

Last night I realized just how easily entertained I can be, and it’s sort of sad.  Jerry has been complaining about the slight vibration in the front end of his truck since the tires were rotated, so I had to follow him over to the dealership last night so their service department can tell him the same things I told him.  1. You have a 4WD truck.  It’s not going to ride like a car. 2. I personally don’t care much for Dunlop tires- at least not the ones Toyota uses as factory equipment tires.  They are OK if you drive the vehicle every day, but we are talking about a 2010 Tacoma with 9,000 miles on it.  When these tires sit, they cup.  When tires cup, you get vibration.  I had to deal with complaints about Dunlop tires (granted these weren’t the same exact model tires) 20 years ago when they were original equipment on Camrys- and the ones who bitched about them always had low mileage cars that would sit for long periods of time.   Most people aren’t fussy enough to even notice a slight vibration like that in a truck, but Jerry is sensitive enough to smell the fart someone just cut up in Moose Dick, Alaska (which is a hell of a long way from beautiful Central Ohio, for those ill-acquainted with geography.)  He notices anything even slightly off with that truck, even if it is well within the realm of normal tolerance.  I pity the service advisor who’s dealing with him.

Maybe I should not take sadistic enjoyment in tormenting car salesmen, especially when buying a new car is about the furthest thing from my mind, but I couldn’t resist wandering the new car lot as I’m waiting for Jerry to drop off his Tacoma with yet another whiny diatribe about the Dunlop tires.  I’m sure he thinks if he whines enough they’ll give him a free set of Bridgestones of his choice, but I highly, highly doubt it.  They’re not a safety issue or even a wear issue.  You have a bit of a vibration at 70 MPH.  Whoop de doo.

Just buy yourself a new set of tires if you are that damned fussy.  I told you to make them swap them out for Bridgestones before you took delivery of the truck…

Anyway, I didn’t even really get a chance to peruse the first two three-door Yarises- other than to glance and keep on walking because they were automatics- on the lot before a thin, sort of ferret-faced salesman starts chasing me down.  That’s what I get for perusing a new car lot on a weeknight.  The first thing I tell him is that I’m just checking out the new cars while I’m waiting on the old man to drop off his truck and that I’m not looking for a new car.  But of course, he persists, so I ask him if they have any (Scion) XDs or 5 door Yarises with manual transmissions.  Mr. Ferret gives me a sort of a weird look and asks, “You aren’t interested in an automatic?”

Ok, so ferrets are cute.  This guy wasn’t, but you get what I mean.

Hell, no, I think to myself, but then I have to wonder how many of the 13% he has actually encountered, and if he has had the rare opportunity to encounter one of the 13% who happens to be female. So I decide to take it easy on him.

“Sorry, but I only drive manual transmissions.  I won’t buy an automatic, which I know sort of narrows down my choices,” I replied, thinking that might make him give up right there.

It must have been a slow night, because the poor guy was running around all over the lot to see if they had any XDs or 5 door Yarises with manual transmissions.  They didn’t, but he did insist on getting my phone number (I gave the home number that I never answer) and e-mail. I don’t entirely want to piss these guys off because I’ve bought my last 4 new cars there.  Even though I pretty much despise car salesmen, I don’t want to be that much of a bitch.  I’m not interested in a new car right now- especially because Toyota isn’t building the Yaris sedan which is what I already have, and am perfectly OK with- anymore.  The XD is intriguing and even though it is a hatchback, that might cross my mind, but good luck finding one of those with 5 on the floor.

Yes, the manual trans is available, but have fun finding one with it!

I hope that I don’t have to resign to driving a farking Volkswagen just so I can get a sedan with a manual transmission the next time I buy a car.  It’s not that I dislike Volkswagen- as far as performance goes there’s no one like the Germans, and VW’s recent models (especially the Jetta and Passat) are interesting- but they are more expensive, and from what I’ve seen in the past, much less reliable than Toyotas.  Who got the farking idea that people who drive manual transmissions only like hatchbacks?   Who got the idea that everyone who likes a manual transmission can afford a European car, even if it does end up being a Volkswagen?  I know it’s hard to cater to the 13%, and I don’t mind that most of the available vehicles are econoboxes, but dammit, there is a market there!

The Jetta GLI could be fun, but I still wonder- how reliable?

I’m not enthralled with buying any car that isn’t made by Toyota, and I’m not buying an automatic anything, even if it means I drive my current Yaris until I drop dead.  So there.

I’m also wondering who around here is getting such a taste for oat opera.  Unless I put my headphones on, I am accosted to a rather foul auditory garbage dump of twangy tunes that make me think I’ve died and gone to redneck hell.  I try to be polite and use headphones if I want to listen to music outside of the privacy of my own car, because I understand that not everyone wants to hear Jethro Tull’s “Aqualung” cranked up.  It’s a cool song but sort of gross when you think about it.  I know I have unusual tastes in music and don’t aspire to inflict them on others.   But why do others think I want my auditory channels violated by Conway Twitty or Shania Twain?

Please, please spare me from bad country music- and most of it is IMO, incredibly bad- unless you want me to start playing David Allan Coe.

Psychopathy is Intriguing, The Fickle Finger of Justice, and Don’t Can the Evidence

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I don’t know if Ted Bundy’s ’68 Bug really qualifies as a “celebrity car,” because it’s kind of hard to envision a serial killer driving one of those.  I would probably place most psychopathic killers in old police auction Caprices or Crown Vics, if I had to profile.   Maybe today I would say a normal car like a Camry or an Accord, so as not to attract the undue attention of law enforcement.  Then again, in the ’70’s VW Bugs were “normal cars.”  I am (to my Dad’s and my son’s chagrin) not terribly enamored of air-cooled VWs for a few reasons.  Air cooling means no hot water heat, which most of us take for granted when it’s 20° below.  The old Bugs had a charming trait when it was that cold.  One would have to scrape the frost off the inside of the windshield.  The one winter- I think it was ’87 or ’88- I was unfortunate enough to have to drive the ’72 every day I got frostbite in my feet and ankles.  When I finally got another (water cooled thank God) Rabbit I was overjoyed.

I love the old Bugs as a curiosity, but as daily drivers they are a pain in the rear unless you live somewhere that’s it’s 70° and sunny with low humidity every day.  Ohio is NOT 70° and sunny every day, and the humidity is only low in the dead of winter when it’s too frozen to have humidity.   Old cars in general don’t like temperature extremes, but the Bugs are particularly temperamental.  If it’s too hot they can overheat easily, as well as it’s hotter than the stygian depths of hell in the car if it’s not moving.  I probably still  have burn scar imprints of the vinyl nubbins from the ’72’s seat emblazoned in the skin of my thighs.    If it’s too cold they are difficult to start- though they generally will run OK in the cold- but driving one in the extreme cold gives the word frigid a whole new meaning.

If you didn’t know Ted Bundy was a psychopathic serial killer, one might almost think him to be a rather hot looking dude.

I freely admit I have more than a passing interest in the macabre.  One of the reasons I took it upon myself to learn about criminal profiling and how to avoid being a victim is that I grew up witnessing a lot of bizarre shit.  Yes, I grew up in a small town, but in small towns much of the crime happens under the radar. Unless it’s something most dramatic or egregious, it gets swept under the rug.  You got to make it worth Channel 10’s while to send the Eyewitness Mobile Spy Cam 45 miles out in the middle of nowhere when there are shootings and stabbings and flaming car wrecks just up the road.

Sometimes people think that because one lives in a small town that there’s no violence or crime and everyone’s like Ozzie and Harriet or the Brady Bunch, but the reality is that small towns have never been nearly as pristine as the people who live in small towns want you to think.  There’s every bit as much scandal and probably then some- because those who live in the city just don’t have the time and energy to get so obsessed with other people’s lives.

No, this is not small town life. Not by a long shot.

It’s more like this.  Sort of like Deliverance, only without the canoes, mountains or banjos.

When I was growing up what would now be called domestic violence was just stuff that happened.  Men beat their wives and kids and it was (not right, mind you, but it was) considered normal.  One lady who lived directly behind us (and was part of the reason why Dad insisted on moving out of that house) had enough of her old man coming home drunk and beating her.  He worked at one of the local factories.  For about two weeks he didn’t show up at work.  She kept calling him in sick,  so some of his co-workers took it upon themselves to go check up on him.  When she could not explain why he wasn’t there at home in bed, the guys got suspicious.  Then as they were leaving, the door to the utility room was open. One of the guys peeked in the door and noticed shelves and shelves of large canning jars with strange looking meaty stuff in them.  She had killed him, chopped him into Mason-jar size pieces and canned his happy ass- most literally.  He was sort of a big dude, so I wonder to this day if she had a chain saw or a saws-all or did she just do it the (quieter) old fashioned way with a hacksaw?   I also wonder if she planned to eat him.  Why keep the evidence unless you’re planning to do something with it?  She probably would have gotten away with it if she’d just loaded him up in his truck and dumped him out in Killdeer Bog where the copperheads, coyotes, raccoons, possums, and other assorted swamp critters would have done away with him.

Yummy.  But they do pick the bones pretty clean.

I was about 5 years old when the Dismemberment and Canning Incident happened, because I remember asking Dad why the yellow tape said, “POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.” I bet that was one time he didn’t appreciate my early reading ability- or hyperlexia- one bit. It was bad enough I read the newspaper, road signs, billboards and any other printed word I could view- whether I should have been viewing it or not.  I found out the full story many years later, because the local paper had a big write up on her when she was paroled.   I think she only escaped the death penalty because there was a brief window in which the death penalty was suspended in Ohio- personally I think we should take a cue from Texas and ramp it up a bit- but she was partially exonerated (I think) because her old man beat her and she was technically a battered woman.  In 1974 no one had heard of a battered woman defense, but by the late ’80’s I think that sort of thing was starting to come to light.

In this poor woman’s case (I can also remember hearing this couple’s rather heated fights in the middle of the night) I think paroling her was the right thing to do.  I know how difficult it is for a woman to leave an abusive relationship, and I also know that there’s the predatory killer who kills for the thrill of it, and the desperation killer that kills out of self-defense or even out of the reservoir of pent-up rage.

My best friend in high school had a rather nasty boyfriend who liked drugs and who got most violent when he was high.  I didn’t care much for the dude even when he wasn’t stoned, but I was completely pissed off when I’d gone to her house only to find him chasing her around with a knife.  This was back in the day before cell phones, and the nearest pay phone was about a quarter mile down the road at the Dairy Mart.  For whatever reason I hit the chronometer on my watch and ran like hell to the Dairy Mart to call 911.  It took the cops almost 20 minutes to get there, and the only reason she wasn’t dead was that he had cornered her in the bathroom and she had grabbed a behemoth can of hair spray (this was the late ’80’s after all) and bashed him in the head, putting him through the shower door and knocking him unconscious.  He was out cold when the cops got there. Bastard deserved it- but back then a woman had to press charges to get the cops to do anything, which of course she didn’t do because she was afraid of him.

Today the cops have to take someone in if they are called out and they so much as suspect domestic violence, which sort of makes sense, and then sort of doesn’t.  A poke or a shove or a little mark could all be it takes to send someone to jail for the evening and perhaps longer.   I have to wonder how many people get carted off for simply defending themselves or their kids?

Must-See Sights in Fly-Over Country, and Things We’d Rather Not See

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Ah, the joy of contrasts.  I absolutely love the show that’s been on Science Channel called An Idiot Abroad.  For those not familiar with it, the show features the adventures of Karl Pilkington, as his “friends” Ricky Gervais and Steve Merchant send him to see the Seven Wonders of the World.  I enjoy British humor anyway, but to see this poor guy traipsing about some of the more tourist un-friendly parts of the third world was absolutely priceless.  The Chinese toilet scene was hilarious.  I really have to wonder, without toilet paper, how in the heck do you keep from fudging your undies?  And in lieu of undies- for the sake of argument  (let’s say they all go commando), fudging your drawers?  Even the most crude backwood cracker rednecks wipe.

It makes me wonder what kind of fun an American living in fly-over country could have road tripping with some poor funky looking Brit.  Just imagine taking Karl on a road trip down in the hollers of WV, or on an excursion to a tractor pull, NASCAR race, or even to the Mobile Home Capital of the Midwest- Marengo, OH.  I could show him urban blight,  rural blight, authentic American cracker rednecks complete with full body tattoos and rebel flags on their trucks, weeds growing out of a swimming pool, and the Tetanus Farm, all in the same day.

I bet foreigners watch American TV and movies and think the whole country is like either New York or Los Angeles- that the women all look like Paris Hilton and the dudes all look like Charlie Sheen.  The pic of Charlie Sheen is substantially larger here, because in my humble, heterosexual female opinion, he’s hotter simply because he’s a dude.  I’m here to tell you, sweetheart, that the Left Coasts are absolutely not representative of all things Yankee.  Fly-over country is different.   Much different.  Foreigners seldom see either the Midwest or the South, which are two regions of the country that have a distinctly defiant and bold demeanor, not at all resembling the politically correct and effete atmosphere you experience on the coasts.  It’s a shame no one really bothers to explore the vast expanses of fly-over country.  Do you think we’re boring or we’re lacking freak factor?  Believe me, I can show you lots of freaky stuff, just on the Ohio State campus.

Within 50 miles of Whine Country alone I can think of some prime locations for freak watching:

Walmart in Newark – Discover why there is such a thing as “Size 20 Women’s Underwear,” and also why there are some very squashed, mousy little dudes.  You could fit five or six Paris Hiltons into one leg hole of those “briefs,” believe that. I bought a pair of these to use as a car cover for my Yaris, but they were too big.

Downtown Columbus during “Gay Pride” weekend is quite a spectacle, especially the “Tranny Parade” (“Tranny” as used here, is NOT an automotive term!)

Walmart in Marion on the first day of the month, or whatever day the Welfare checks come out- (steel toed shoes and Febreze recommended.) The fat-chick-on-a-scooter thing always amazed me.  If she were motivated to walk to begin with,  she would never would have gotten fat enough to have needed the scooter, no?

Believe me, if you want a freak show, just open the door and start gawking.  I can think of enough freaky footage right here in Central Ohio to keep foreigners amused for weeks.

I would love to be Karl’s (or some other unfortunate English-speaking foreigner’s) tour guide to the Midwest and the South.  It could be a lot of fun.

All I can suggest is never drink the local water when you travel unless it has been filtered, brewed or boiled.   I get Montezuma’s Revenge drinking pretty much any locality’s unfiltered tap water outside of Franklin County.  If in doubt go for a brewed beverage (tea or coffee) or better yet a prepackaged beverage such as Diet Dr. Pepper or Diet Rockstar.

It’s no crime to be large.  I freely admit, while I have not attained the heft or girth of livestock, I am proportioned like a mutant troll.  I have short meaty arms, big meaty man-hands, and my abdominal area resembles a road map to Atlanta.  Coverage is the key.  When you are large or badly proportioned, proper use of clothing for coverage purposes creates a more tolerable aesthetic.

Cover up your bad self!

I don’t mean “wear a burqa” (unless your religious views dictate so.)  It is good for those of us with less than optimum physiques to refrain from displaying those problem areas.  Ladies with meaty arms should not run about in sleeveless shirts, for instance.

This is a fashion don’t.  And if the pink thing is supposed to be a bra, it’s way too small.  No one wants to see your backfat- not out in the open or all bunched up making muffin mountains in all the wrong places under your shirt.

Here’s an example of a large (not necessarily “fat” but certainly no Calista Flockhart) lady dressing appropriately.  Her meaty arms are generously covered with sleeves.  Her skirt is long enough to conceal any cottage cheese or thunder thighs.  Yet she is not so covered-up she looks like she’s running about in a muu-muu or a burqa.

I like that dress.

I like the idea of foreign tourism in all those places tourists don’t normally go even better.  Come on down and experience the wonders of the G&R Bar, (home of the world’s most awesome fried bologna sandwich) the Ohio State Fair, and the Marion Popcorn Festival (it’s OK, they bring in extra cops.)  Go on to West Virginia and experience white-water rafting, interesting redneck accents, and harrowing drives on mountain Interstates named after (and largely pork-barrel funded by) the late Senator Robert C. Byrd.

A Peaceful, Easy Birthday Everyone Forgot, and I Like It That Way

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At my age it is a lovely thing when everyone forgets your birthday.  Jerry can’t remember his own birthday without either straining to read the fine print on his driver’s license, or by checking with the BMV, so I forgive him for that.  His family doesn’t bother to recognize birthdays, likely for two good reasons.  His Dad and his Dad’s fourteen other siblings were born at home, deep in the hollers of rural WV, and none of them have birth certificates.  The date- and year- listed as his Dad’s birthday on his Dad’s driver’s license is likely not his Dad’s actual birthday, but someone’s best guess.  Since his Dad got a social security card and driver’s license long before you had to have a birth certificate to acquire either, his Dad is grandfathered in.

I wonder if he would be able to get a passport?  If he were really pressed could he prove he is an American citizen?  Our friend Bob is an American citizen but he was born in London (his Dad was American but his Mom is English) and his birth certificate is in London.   Bob can’t get a copy of his birth certificate unless he goes to London to get it, but you can’t go to the UK without a passport.  Thankfully the Social Security people recognized his honorable discharge from the Marines as proof of citizenship.  Bob still can’t get a passport though, because when he tried he was told that one has to have a certified copy of one’s birth certificate.  Then again, I highly doubt that Jerry’s Dad would really need a passport for anything, unless they make it mandatory to have a passport to cross the border from WV back to Ohio.  The birth certificate requirement to acquire a passport is probably a blessing in disguise to keep old rednecks from traveling abroad and perpetuating the “Ugly American” stereotype.  Then again, maybe our foreign friends have never tried getting rid of hemorrhoids by soaking them in kerosene.

When you have so many family members that every day is someone’s birthday or so it seems, it’s a lot harder to remember every one and a lot harder to afford to buy gifts for every one.  So, I can see where Jerry gets the idea to  simplify his life and just celebrate all his family’s birthdays every day with a 12 pack of Natties and a couple of packs of smokes.

I do find it entertaining how some people remember my birthday sometime in the middle of March and then send sheepy, belated wishes.  It’s OK to forget.  I don’t really want to be reminded that I’m one day closer to death anyway.

Over time one gets a new appreciation for bodily functions functioning as they should.

Admittedly not everyone forgot my birthday. The BMV doesn’t forget.  I renewed my vehicle registration last week.  No way do I want to drive around in the Central Ohio suburb with the largest number of cops per capita with an expired tag.  I don’t even remotely want to give law enforcement any reason to approach me for anything.  Cops make me nervous.  My Facebook friends remembered, because your friends get reminders automatically.  I appreciate everyone who wrote on my wall today.  My friends from my church group remembered for the same reason- all of our birthdays are on the contact sheet.  But my family all forgot, which is funny as hell.  Steve-o remembered to call- to remind me he needs money.   Jerry acknowledged me coming back after I’d gone in to work this morning with a rousing, “Where’s my breakfast, woman?”  So the world remains the same.

Whistling as the Hearse Goes By, and Morbid Humor

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The only thing worse than a monster truck hearse would have to be the mini-van-as-hearse which sort of strikes me as being cheap.  I really don’t want to make my last trip in a modified Grand Caravan.

Something about this van just screams, “LAME!”   Please don’t take me on my first leg of my journey to the Great Beyond in a Mom van. Especially a Grand Caravan- a vehicle noted for having a top speed of 45MPH going downhill in a windstorm.  If that’s how life after death starts out, then I can envision heaven not as a mansion with many rooms, but as the Motel 6.  I know they leave the light on for you, but I was sort of hoping eternity might prove to be a bit more exciting than free HBO and a continental breakfast.    If I were into pomp and circumstance surrounding funerals- and I doubt if the two or three people who make it to my funeral will really care- but if I were there to enjoy the festivities, I’d want a really classy hearse, and nothing says classy quite like the old Caddys:

That’s my idea of a hearse. One of those would have been great for transporting band equipment back in the day too, but a ’70 Caddy like the one pictured above would have been equipped with either a 472 or 500 cubic inch V8 engine. That would be either 7.7 or 8.2 liters, if you think about engine displacement in liters like I do.  In the world of imports engine displacement is always measured in liters, and automotive (even the domestics, since about 1980 or so) uses metric measurements in general, so you get used to it.  I can see why. It’s sort of lame to think the displacement of your car’s engine is 92 cubic inches, when 1.5 liters sounds better in a  strange sort of way.   The old Caddy with either of those behemoth V8s (and a horrendously inefficient four barrel carburetor- no fuel injection back then!) would have sucked up tons of gasoline, on top of being rather pricey to maintain.  It would have looked awesome though.

Then again, since I’ve had a lot of exposure to things automotive, it would stand to reason I would want to be a bit on the dramatic/traditional side.

There are some things I simply can’t change, so I can either get my undies in a bunch about them, or find the humor in them.  The challenge to find the humor in the things that perplex has proven to be both fun and educational.

The Brits (God love them, because they speak English and have worse teeth than American rednecks, which is amazing in a weird sort of way in and of itself) have elevated morbid humor to an art form.  Benny Hill was known for his irreverent treatment of everything from classic literature (his spoof on Gone With the Wind is hilarious) to sex and death.  Monty Python dealt with death throughout The Meaning of Life and in the classic spot in The Quest for the Holy Grail.  Americans can do a good job at morbid humor too, (the Kentucky Fried Movie’s spoof United Appeal for the Dead is simply classic) though there’s something super silly about the way the Brits do it.

I don’t know why I have seem to have found a strange comfort surrounding the subject of death.  I remember being terrified at Girl Scout camp (now there’s an adventure- sleeping in tents and using outhouses) when we went to an old graveyard to do grave rubbings with sheets of paper and crayons.  Today I would find the old tombstones fascinating, but not then.  Most of the girls were more creeped out by the potential to encounter bugs and snakes.  I wasn’t fond of  bugs or snakes either, (especially flying insects) but at that time just the idea of  being that close to dead people really creeped me out. 

Perhaps the closer we get to the grave, the more we get comfortable with the inevitability of death.

Just yesterday someone was calling looking for a recently deceased co-worker.  I didn’t talk to the person but I did overhear the conversation.  “The person who handles that is not available at the moment,” was the response.  Hell, be honest about it.  He’s out permanently. It’s true he’s not available, but the person who did talk to the inquirer should have let him know that it’s not just a matter of so-and-so being on vacation or out of the office for a bit.

It’s not the end.  Yet.