Coffee & Road Trips

Dad’s stories used to be one of my kids favorite things but they make the request less frequently these days. Listening to me reminisce about my wonder years isn’t as interesting to teenagers. I’ve also reached the age or reruns. “I’ve heard this one before, Dad.” Still, when they request me to entertain them with tales of my youth, I oblige. I won’t be able to do this for much longer.

Last weekend, they wanted crazy driving stories. Most of tales I have to tell about diving wild involve my brother, Aaron. I told them about the time he picked me up from school and we scared a student driver by head banging to some metal music turned up to full volume while heading down the long driveway from the MPHS campus. Story time ended with an anecdote from a road trip we took to Cheyenne in the summer of 96.

It was an ill fated trip. The original plan was a non-stop drive straight through from Seattle to Cheyenne, but it was nearly midnight when we reached Billings and Aaron was too tired to continue. He got us a hotel room and we slept hard. In the morning, we discovered I had accidentally locked his keys in the car and we had to wait for a police officer to pick the lock for us. On the way back home, we spent the night with one of our dad’s college friends in Meridian. After they woke us up for breakfast, news broke about the bombing at the Atlanta Olympics. Then Aaron’s car broke down on the freeway after we passed Caldwell. He took the next exit and his Ford Lemon sputtered to a stop on front of a gas pump in Sand Hollow. There was a mechanic there who took a look at the car. He didn’t have the parts to fix it and it would take a week to get it if he placed an order. Instead, he duct taped some hoses together so it would hold long enough to get to a fancier mechanic in Ontario. After the car was fully repaired, we got lost trying to get out of Ontario. Attempting to make up time, Aaron got caught speeding by a flying radar trap somewhere north of Umatilla. The ticket was for driving 15 mph over the limit.

I didn’t tell the kids about any of that though. Instead I focused on our arrival in Cheyenne.

Aaron and I agreed it would be funny if we were blasting west coast rap while driving through the city of cowboys. I selected our entrance music as we rolled into town: Gospel Gangstaz. Windows down, volume up. The bass bumped and thumped the whole way to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

There was one necessity visibly absent during our hip-hop ride: coffee shops. Growing up in the Seattle suburbs, America’s coffee Mecca, we were accustomed to seeing drive-thru coffee stands in parking lots at every major intersection. It felt weird driving through Wyoming’s biggest city and not seeing a coffee shop. Or any big city without seeing a single latte stand.

Granted, this was 1996. The concept of espressos were still an American novelty abundant on the urban coasts but foreign in the heartlands. Small town USA had yet to discover the joys of breves and americanos. In mid-90s Cheyenne, if you wanted coffee, you brewed it at home with the ground Folgers you purchased at the grocery store, or you bought a cup with unlimited refills at 24 hour diners like Sheri’s.

Still, Aaron was a coffee addict and I was coffee curious. We wanted to get some real good caffeinated brew, The first question we asked when we arrived at The Budd house: where can we find a coffee stand? Of the many aunts and uncles gathered, only one knew where we could seek our treasure. There was only one drive-thru shop and it was located on the other side of town. Aaron got the directions and we jumped back into his car for the cross town drive in hopes to find the glorious java.

It was there. As promised. No other vehicles were in line when we arrived so we drove up to the window without a wait. My order was simple, a single shot mint latte. Aaron placed an order for his usual: a quad shot mocha mint. Unfortunately, what was a normal drink in the Seattle suburbs was unusual in Cheyenne. How unusual? Well, they had never heard of it.

“What’s that?” The barista asked.

Aaron asked if she knew how to make a mocha. She did. Then if she knew what a double shot was. She did. By this time, he had the attention of both baristas.

“Well,” he said, “if it takes two shots to make a double shot, then it would take four shots to make a quad shot.”

“Four shots?” said one barista. “Can you do that?” asked the other.

Aaron nodded and instructed the ladies at Cheyenne’s only drive through coffee shop how to assemble his quad shot mocha mint.

Today, there are at least seven Starbucks in Cheyenne (more if you include those located inside of grocery stores) and a couple dozen other cafes, drive-thru stands, and boutique shops offering a variety of fancy espressos. If you’re ever in Chy-Town, I’d recommend stopping by Rail Yard Coffee Haus.

It’s a new age where coffee is holy water and every caffeine craving American has their favorite spot to get their fix. 25 years ago was a different time, we were not quite so obsessed. The plentiful options available now were once nonexistent.

I’ve told this story dozens of times. My Seattle friends don’t believe it ever happened because coffee shops have been a fixture of our culture since the grunge era. Younger kids don’t believe me because they can’t remember anything before the ubiquitous latte stand. As I relayed this tale one more time with my kids, I had a revelation.

The first quad shot mocha ever made in the city of Cheyenne was made for my brother. This as an indisputable fact.

The baristas working at the coffee stand we visited had never made a quad shot before. They didn’t even know it was possible which means such a strong coffee had never been brewed in their shop. Since that lone latte stand was the only coffee shop in Cheyenne, there was nowhere anyone else could have previously ordered such a monstrosity. Therefore, it is only logical to deduct my brother’s order was the first time a quad shot had been made in the entire city of Cheyenne.

In previous iterations of this story, I never considered the monumental implications of what my brother accomplished the sunny July day in the summer of 96. To be the first patron to order a quad shot mocha in the entire city makes him a legend.

There should be an award for such feats.

Four years after our trip, Aaron and his wife became residents of Cheyenne. They’ve made the city their home. And it’s become easier for Aaron to find espressos with more than two shots.

Narcissism Speeding

Highway 195 connects Spokane to Pullman as a two lane roadway for most of the distance between the two cities. Northbound and southbound lanes of traffic occasionally diverge, and in some uphill stretches one lane splits into two to allow faster cars to pass slower traffic. With good weather, clear road conditions, and other drivers maintaining the speed limit, a student at WSU could walk out of a classroom and make it to the downtown Spokane in an hour and a half.

People also tend to speed on this highway. The scenery isn’t the most interesting vista in the world, just gentle rolling hills covered with farmlands. From one small town until the next, it feels like driving through emptiness where you’re more likely to see tumbleweed than speed traps. However, the speed traps do exist and the road is often patrolled by Washington State Patrol and sheriffs from both Spokane and Whitman counties. We were able to witness both the speeder and the cop on a recent road trip.

An impatient driver attempted to pass me in one of those uphill sections. I had cruise control set at the speed limit but still moved into the right hand lane for slow pokes because it is the courteous thing to do. A white SUV came up fast behind me but not fast enough. The two lanes merged into one while I was still out front. I remained set at the speed limit so I didn’t feel any shame or guilt making him slow his roll. He tailgated me for a few miles until the road split again, the last of the two lanes for southbound traffic before Rosalia. He started merging into the slow lane prior to its actual existence and passed me before I had a chance to move out of his way.

OK, fine, whatever. At least he wasn’t tailgating me anymore. By the time I drove past the Rosalia exit, the white SUV was out of site, but it wouldn’t be the last time I saw him. Up another hill and around the bend, I saw some flashing red and blue lights. Someone got pulled over. As I got closer, that unknown someone became someone I recognized: the white SUV. I laughed. He was pulled over for speeding, obviously. If I had to guess, I’d wager the officer clocked him at least ten miles an hour over the limit. This occasion would not be the last time I saw that white SUV.

Driving on, the twinkling lights disappeared from my rearview mirror. Out of site, out of mind. Annie and I continued our conversation and our trip to the Pullman area. I didn’t think much of the speeding/tailgating driver exchanging his license and registration with the WSP officer – none of my business. Or at least I temporarily gave up my thoughts of him.

image courtesy of Inlander

Less than ten minutes later, he provided reason to ponder his presence again. I glanced in the rearview and noticed a white vehicle coming up behind me at a high rate of speed. Another couple seconds and his identity became clear – the white SUV again. I was still using cruise control. Still set at the speed limit. I moved into the slow lane as soon as one became available and the white SUV immediately zipped by me. I couldn’t help but hope for another speed trap in the miles ahead of us.

I understand that roads have speed limits and speeding is an infraction of which law enforcement has the right (duty?) to pull over and fine offending drivers. I also realize speeding is the most common traffic violation. People speed. It happens. They get pulled over and receive tickets. Sometimes they show up in court to dispute the charges. This is all normal.

However, returning to the same offence immediately after being penalized for it isn’t normal. A normal person would think “Oops, I got caught; I should check myself before I wreck myself.” Or something like that. Most people would recognize the error of their ways and correct their behavior, even if temporarily. Normal behavior would be learning from the mistake of speeding, and drive within reasonable speeds with hopes to avoid another ticket.

Narcissism doesn’t operate with this logic. One of the most common signs of pathological narcissism is a failure to learn from your mistakes. Instead, they would think it is their right to speed and the real problem is the police officer. Or they might think there was nothing wrong with the way they were driving. “It’s not my fault,” they say, “it’s not a big deal.”

In that brief interaction and observation of the lead-footed captain of a white SUV on the way to Pullman, I recognized the real problem in America: pathological narcissism. It infects every corner of American society. From schools to office buildings, from churches to marketplaces, and at every level of elected position from municipal councils to the President of the United States of America. We, the people are a little too self-absorbed. We feel entitled, like we deserve everything we want and our desires are insatiable. We overestimate our talents and embellish our achievements. We are obsessed with wealth and power, filled with greed and envy. We belittle people we don’t like, attack those who disagree with us, and fear those who are different. We are arrogant and demanding, expecting more from others than we are willing to give.

Welcome to America, what can you do for me?

Or maybe, just possibly, I’m reading too much into one lone speeder along highway 195. It is conceivable that I’m projecting my frustrations with the current state of our nation onto this one excessive driver.

Then It Happened (Mea Culpa)

Monday was a long day. The previous Saturday brought heavy snowfall and blowing winds. The wind created massive drifts covering many of our area’s roads and messy driving conditions. Snow continued throughout the day Sunday, and by the time I headed out to do barn chores Monday morning, there was over a foot of snow on the ground. My work commute was double my usual travel time so I was not the happiest of campers when I finally reached my office.

I couldn’t get out of the office at my normal time – there was a project that needed completion and I had to get it done before heading home. I headed out to my truck about 20 minutes later than usual, and needed to brush more snow off my truck. As I started to pull out of the parking lot, I discovered the worst possible malfunction to happen during a snowstorm: my windshield wipers weren’t wiping. Additionally, my blinkers didn’t work either and my seatbelt was stuck in the retracted position. It would not be safe for me to drive home. Luckily, my truck is like a computer, all I needed to do was turn it off and back on. After restarting (rebooting?) the engine, everything was fine.

By then, I was tired, frustrated, hungry, and facing a long slow drive back to the farm. All I wanted was to be home with the woman I love where all the stresses of the day were irrelevant. Then I found one more obstacle in my way.

After driving through the parking lot, as I approached Ironwood, there was a red SUV stuck in the snow between me and the main road. The driver had it turned sideways blocking the parking lot exit. He was spinning his tires so I assumed it was some Californian transplant who didn’t know how to drive in the snow so they bought a vehicle with four wheel drive to overcompensate. Everyone knows – or at least should know – spinning your tires on snow and ice is a bad idea. It packs down whatever has you stuck into smoother and slicker ice. In turn, it becomes more difficult to get un-stuck. On top of violating commonsense rules of winter driving, this guy popped the hood for his engine compartment and started poking around in there. His actions left me aggravated and confused. I can be a judgmental jerk sometimes.

In order to cement my moment of jerkiness, I did what any perfectly self-righteous pompous ass would do. I ranted about it on facebook for anyone to see.

After clicking the share button in facebook, a more civilized version of myself resumed control. I couldn’t safely navigate around him and wasn’t going to be able to leave until he was out of the way. I shut off my engine, turned on my hazard lights, and got out to see if he needed any help. Perhaps, I thought to myself, all he really needs is someone who knows how to drive in snow to get him out of his jam. Even in my generosity I was selfish with an added bonus of superiority.

“Are you having some problems?” I asked the world’s dumbest question with the most obvious answer.
He chuckled, “Yeah, you could say that. My front axle is locked up.”
“Do you have it in four wheel drive?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you try taking it out of four-wheel and putting it back in?”
“Yup.”

This is the moment when I finally felt like an asshole. First, because I’m not a mechanic. In fact, I am embarrassingly lacking in mechanical skills. This stranger stuck in the parking lot presented me with a problem I didn’t know how to fix. Second, and perhaps more urgently, I heard the rest of his story.

His girlfriend was running late for work that morning so he let her drive the Xterra. It was safer for her to take it than their other car. She dropped their kids off at the daycare next door to her office then went to work. With the day over he dropped their junker car off for her to drive when her shift ended, then he picked up the kids to head home. I looked in the back window of his rig and noticed three young children sitting shoulder to shoulder in the back seat. He was on his way out from the day care parking lot when his vehicle shuddered and everything when haywire.

“My girlfriend must have done something to it to mess it up. The back wheels are turning but not the front. I can still steer but those wheels won’t rotate no matter what I do.” He closed the hood and jumped back into the driver’s seat. Then to demonstrate as if he had to prove it to me, he attempted acceleration in both forward and reverse. The back tires spun in both attempts, but the front tires remained motionless.

Mea culpa.

With my ego completely deflated, I only had one more question to ask. “Do you need me to call someone for you?” At last, I was trying to be helpful.

“Naw.” He declined. “If I can’t get it to go, I’m gonna have to call a tow truck.”

In reverse, he could get enough traction to drag the Xterra backwards – even with the front tires locked in place. He managed to move far enough out of the way for other drivers to pass through. There was nothing I could do to remedy his situation so I returned to my truck and drove away.

I’m sure he called a tow truck. He and the kids eventually made their way home. He and his girlfriend are now reduced to one car between them, one vehicle to transport them both to two different jobs with no clear answer to when their Xterra would be fixed. I know how hard that is because I’ve been there before. Even though I’ll probably never see this man again, I felt a little bit of a kindred spirit in him. He’s a dad trying to take care of his kids just like me. And we live in a world where things tend to go awry. The struggle is real. He’s there, and I’ve been there.

Consider this a long winded explanation of a lesson we all should have learned as children: Don’t judge a book by its cover. Despite my best efforts to not be a judgmental jerk, my inner asshole rears his ugly head every now and then. Perhaps I feed him a bit too much.

ps: if you happen to be the driver of that red Xterra, I apologize for my arrogance and impatience. I hope things worked out for your good. And I owe you a drink.

Truck Yeah

A couple weeks ago, a coworker caught me on my way out the office door. "Headed home?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered. "Well, actually to the store first to get pig food, then home." He looked at me funny and asked why I'm getting pig food. "For a pig. I have pigs." He looked even more confused so I added more. I live on a farm. We have pigs, horses, goats, chickens, ducks, and turkeys.

He started laughing. "For real?" I nodded. He said, "So you're telling me our super geeky system access administrator lives on a farm. That might be the most North Idaho thing I've ever heard." Our farm might not be in Idaho but it's close enough and his point is legitimate. This region is where nerds get a little dirt under their fingernails.

If you've been following along over the past year and a half, you'll know this has been a season of change. I left the apartment and relocated into the country. My family lives on acreage and we're raising an assortment of furry and feathered friends. I got a horse of my own and frequently wear my cowboy boots to work. While I'm still a giant nerd, I'm now a rural nerd. I am becoming equal parts giddy up and all your base are belong to us.

Last weekend, I did something I never imagined doing. As a result, my farmer transformation is almost complete. I traded in the sedan and got myself a truck. But not just any truck, I bought one with a lift kit.

There's some grief and loss here. I miss the Honda's gas mileage, heated seats, sunroof, defroster that doesn't take 20 minutes to warm up, remote keyfob for keyless locks, soundsystem with a decent subwoofer, and windshield I can easily reach when it's frosty outside. But we needed a truck. We need something to tow the horses during rodeo season and a way to haul hay for the animals so we can avoid paying extra to get it delivered. And it'll be nice to drive it out behind the back pastures on a warm summer night, park it, climb into the bed, lay down, and appreciate the beautiful and vast expanse of galaxies stretched above us.

Don't worry though, I'm not going to become a complete redneck. Everybody knows you never go full redneck.

As we drove home from the dealership, Annie asked me if I'd be her geeky farmer. I think I can handle that. Country living is alluring with this strange and inexplicable romantic feeling. I am being assimilated. Resistance is futile.

Bailing Out

Through geekery alone, my knowledge is significant. I can crack open a book, read, and absorb information; surf the internet and flex my Google-Fu; take classes and attend seminars. The possibilities seem endless. But there are limits. There are things that you cannot fully understand until experienced through hands-on application. I can argue superiority between Star Trek and Star Wars because I've seen all the movies and TV shows; I've played video games and board games related to both franchises. I've experienced both fandoms so my knowledge is equally practical and intellectual.

However ...

There are things where (until recently) I've had no need to learn through visual, auditory, or kinesthetic pursuits. Farming is one of those topics. During 1985’s Farm Aid concert, I knew American growers faced a financial crisis, fighting against political pressures. However, I was only six years old so the technical details and shifting dynamics in our economy were far beyond my grasp. I knew nothing of the changes corporate agriculture had on independent and small family farms. First grade curriculum doesn’t include the concepts of supply and demand, property rights, mass production, or GMOs. Even as I got older and learned about economic principles and American civics, costs and efforts required to harvest food were irrelevant to me. I was a product of the suburbs, completely disinterested in the agrarian lifestyle. I saw the American heartland as endless amber waves of grain, boring scenery between me and Grandma's house. I valued purple mountain majesty and fruited plains, preferred the scent of cedar groves and alpine meadows over dairy air, and would rather hear honking horns than mooing bovine. I was content to keep it that way. If I could go to the grocery store and buy prepackaged delights, then the plight of the farmer was not my concern.

Priorities have shifted over the past several months. Farming is no longer something other people do; it's a part of my daily life. My health improved because of the work it takes to build fencing and stack hay. I appreciate the view from my back porch where I watch the sunset every evening. I love the darkness at night, revealing a vast expanse of stars undiminished from the light pollution plaguing city folk. I also understand how hard you must labor to enjoy this life and how much it costs to maintain it.

We love our horses. Horses eat a lot of hay. Hay can be expensive - especially when the horses eat (roughly) a ton of food each month.

Until now, the financial side of equestrian care was a foreign subject. Money spent on field fencing is staggering for someone who has never investigated those prices. A trip to the theater for the newest Marvel movie (including soda and popcorn) is cheap compared to the price tags on saddles at the tack shop. I've been exposed to the world of rodeos, household repair, and farm maintenance. I now spend time in North 40 and Home Depot the same way a younger version of me once occupied Hastings and GameStop. I’ve become familiar with how expensive it is to maintain a farm with goats, geese, ducks, chickens, horses, and a free-spirited rabbit who does whatever it wants; I also see how hard my neighbors work with their pigs and cattle. We purchased hay from local farms - all of which are grown and harvested by young families or old men wanting to be productive after retiring from the workforce. I’m grateful for how much they spend on equipment and the hard work they do to cut and bale the hay we buy to feed our animals.

When I hear people talk about their motivations behind voting or Trump, it makes sense to me. Vibrancy fades once you get out of urban centers and bedroom communities. Small towns in rural America have been shrinking. I've driven through many dwindling municipalities with boarded up windows, signs announcing store closures, and empty streets on what should have been a busy day filled with people shopping for goods, services, and supplies. Their populations are leaving for better opportunities in bigger cities, costs of running a farm are increasing, profits from selling meat and produce are slimmer. Their way of life is slowly disappearing. Livelihoods of many Americans depend on their land, their crops, their livestock. They see an uncertain future, a possible end to their lifestyle. Justified or not, many of them blame Obama and Democratic policies for these changes. Afraid of losing everything they've ever known, they believe Donald Trump was the only candidate who cared about them. They thought Trump was the one would protect the familiar, he would be a champion of their values and interests.

Economic, social, political, and demographic insecurity. They were unsettled by changes in the populace from gay rights and immigration to lower attendance in their churches every Sunday morning. They saw massive societal shifts and it scared them. People who are anxious of losing their status, power, or influence can act irrationally. Fear makes us stupid. Trump tapped into those fears and exploited them. Now, the farmers who voted for him need rescue from the negative impacts of his administration.

It's sad because it was all entirely predictable. We could see this coming. Trump campaigned on promises of trade wars and tariffs. Democrats raged against his plans. Comedians and late-night talk show hosts mocked him. Conservatives voiced tempered concern. Economists predicted disaster. When Trump threatened trade wars, we all knew it wouldn't end well. We all knew what would happen. Those of us who opposed Trump tried to warn everyone. Yet Trump still won the election. The predictions of doom came true and the people hurt the worst by Trump's tariffs are (or were) his biggest supporters. Trump offered a $12-billion bail out to offset the consequences of harm caused by his trade war.

Money fixes everything.

How do you get a slice of that $12-billion pie? Our farm needs two more pastures fenced in, a new round pen, deer fencing erected so we can start our garden, privacy landscaping planted to shield our pool from view of people driving by, and several trees need to be felled or pruned. A pest control treatment would be nice. Our work truck broke down and needs replaced. When you live on a farm, there are always a list of projects you'll complete if/when you get a little extra cash. Our list is a little longer than most.

Realistically though, my family won't qualify for any funds. Nor will my neighbors, or the ma & pa farms where we purchase hay. Operations like ours are ineligible. The $12-billion will not be going to independent and family farms with small acreage. Instead, large corporate owned farms are getting it. Companies who stock the frozen foods isle at major grocery stores. Ag-industry giants who supply beef and French fries to fast food chains. The bailouts are gifts to big businesses, not to the people who need it most.

Let’s treat those poor farmer-CEOs the way many conservatives malign impoverished Americans. They don't deserve welfare, need a hand up not a hand up. It's time they pull themselves up by the bootstraps. They're just lazy. I don't pay my taxes so these people can have money handed to them – no strings attached. Who do they think funds their free lunch? They better not be buying beer or cigarettes. If they're unable to pay their bills, they should go get a second or third job. They could drive their tractors for Uber or list their farms on Airbnb. Perhaps they should be drug tested before they get a bailout. Why not drug test all their employees? Hopefully none of those employees are undocumented workers; we'd have to deport them.

If all else fails, we can vote differently in November than we did in 2016. We might still be scared; hopefully we're smarter.

Ode to Mullets

It's the Kentucky waterfall, the neckwarmer, or the Camero cut. The official hairdo of NASCAR, ice hockey, country music, butt-rock, meth addicts, and our worst memories of the 80s. If you have one, I'll assume you drive an El Camino and listen to Nickelback. It's even a movie trope. When you see a kid with a mullet in the theater, you know he's a bully. Or a redneck. Or both.

image courtesy of New Line Cinema and Warner Bros Pictures

In the early days of Bush Jr's presidency, my friend Steve and I spent a couple afternoons mullet hunting. We'd hang out at Boise Towne Square or drive through Garden City looking for people with the regrettable hairstyle so we could take a photograph of them. Somewhere on the internet, in the days before social media, there was a website full of hilarious pictures of mullet-topped citizens. It even had them sorted by classifications, coiffured subspecies. There was the frullet (part afro, part mullet), or the skullet (bald on top, long and flowy in back). The website was completely driven by user submissions and Steve's goal was for them to use a picture he submitted.

We never got a picture good enough to be sent to the web collection of epic mullets. But a juvenile with a kidlet (kid with a mullet) flipped us off, and we were chased through the mall by a body builder unironically dressed like a member of The Power Team.

image courtesy of The Power Team

There are times I wish I had a camera with me to sneak a photo of some creative mullets. At a birthday party for a friend of a friend several years ago, there was a mullet of preposterous proportions worn by the birthday boy's mother's girlfriend. It started with mall-bangs up front (like Tiffany in I Think We’re Alone Now), Farrah Fawcett feathering on top, buzzed in racing lines on the side, and the mullet sprouting down the back. But it was no ordinary mullet, it was divided in half. The left side was cut a few inches shorter than the right side and neither half was trimmed straight; the two sides were cut at odd angles - one of which was sharper than the other. Finally, out from underneath the staggered mullet, like Obi Wan in Episode 1, a thin Padawan braid pony tail hung down to her waistline. It's like her hairstylist asked her what she wanted and she replied, "Give me one of everything."

It's been a good long while since I've witnessed one in public, until this week. It was a mullet that was trying not to be a mullet but clearly was still a mullet.

Between his build and facial features, he looked like Milton from Office Space. His fashion choices were similar too, only substitute current geek-chic glasses for the oversized wire frames and add a minimalist tribal tattoo sleeve.

image courtesy of 20th Century Fox

As for the hair? It was that weird moldy blonde, similar in color and texture as Donald Trump, and slicked back the way Trump’s sons do. Then in back it went down further than you’d expect, ending in a peculiar pointy shape - as if it was once a rat tail cut off while he slept by a prankster sibling.

Mullets have often been referred to as business up front and party in the back. This hair cut was New Yorker up front and homeschooled from Athol in the back. Never have I been more confused by someone else’s haircut.

Thankfully, the mullet has faded from use. Billy Ray Cyrus abandoned it years ago and it's been shunned by most everyone in the public spotlight from politicians to race car drivers to aging metalheads. The mullet is known as a cultural embarrassment and I hope it remains stigmatized for years to come.

Notes from a Jedi Master

If you ever ride shotgun in Emrys, you should recognize my geekery before you get your seat belt fastened. Just look at the dashboard and you'll see Chewie.

Bonus points if you can identify the song playing on my car stereo.

As a Star Wars fan, I celebrate Star Wars Day faithfully. You know who else celebrates this geeky holiday? Luke Skywalker himself, Mark Hamill. Hamill is one of my favorite humans on this planet. From lending his voice to create my favorite version of the Joker, to his quick and sharp wit, to the general level of coolness most nerds hope to achieve, Hamill is one of my heroes. Despite his incredible career, most people will only remember him for his role as Vader's son, the kid from Tatooine who really wanted to go to Tosche Station to get some power converters. Some people could complain about their singular identity, but Hamill embraces it. He's a man who doesn't take himself too seriously and tweets like these are evidence.

May The First Be With You

— Mark Hamill (@HamillHimself) May 1, 2018

May The Second Be Better

— Mark Hamill (@HamillHimself) May 2, 2018

May The Third Be Absurd

— Mark Hamill (@HamillHimself) May 3, 2018

May The Fourth Be With [YOUR NAME HERE]

— Mark Hamill (@HamillHimself) May 4, 2018

I will never be as cool as Mark Hamill. However, I am as cool as me. And that is enough. So, from one nerd to another, I wish you a happy Star Wars Day. May the 4th be with you.

I am one with the 4th and the 4th is with me.

Doing Something Right: Summertime Edition

Summer has arrived in full force. A little belated but North Idaho has seen gradual warming since Father's Day and last Friday was the first time we reached 100 degrees this year. The sun is out and will be lingering for a while. For some people, summertime weather means beaches and boats, hiking the mountains or floating the river, sunburns and tan lines, summer camps, bonfires, volleyball, frisbee golf, cliff diving, baseball games, and backyard barbecues.

Not me, though.

Sure, my family participates in many of those typical summer activities. My oldest has earned himself sunburns on two consecutive Fridays and is slowly learning the value of sunscreen. My youngest has played his first two baseball games of the season and I took the kids out to watch the Spokane Indians last week. We will partake in opportunities for swimming and hiking and grilled foods. However, those activities and experiences don't make my summer summer.

For me, there is only one thing that makes this season feel truly summer-like. A soundtrack.

There are certain songs that should only be played between Memorial Day and Labor Day. There is music that makes you feel like you belong where the waves crash along the shore. There is a particular collection of tunes that dance and in hand with inflatable pool toys and roasted marshmallows. Whole genres that beg to be played during the summer months. Reggae. Ska. Salsa.

Or maybe I am just weird. Which is always a possibility. However, summer just isn't summer until I hear a couple specific songs.

This year, with a new car (I named it Emrys, BTW) that has an excellent sound system, I needed some cruising music. So, I did what I have enjoyed doing since I was a teen growing up in the 90's. I did what I was once paid to do in my former job as a DJ. I created a mix of songs for the occasion. It has been playing in my car for the last three weeks with a few breaks to listen to Spanish lessons with the kids.

My munchkins are growing more familiar with the music I selected. After listening through the full playlist a couple times, each of my three kids have picked out the songs they like best. One day, about an hour into the mix, Zu had a question for me.

"Where's the Fresh Prince?" She asked.

DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince's classic summer jam 'Summertime' is the second track in my playlist. It is one of those songs that I must hear before I can accept that this hot weather is valid and acceptable. It is one of those songs I believe is best played while driving around with the windows down and volume up. And that song is the one my daughter wants to hear the most.


This is how I know I'm doing something right. My daughter, like most girls her age, wants to listen to Justin Bieber or Ariana Grande or Shawn Mendes. Yet she has an appreciation for old-school Will Smith. She will belt out the lyrics when Corinne Bailey Rae plays. I will catch her singing along with some obscure artists like Ozomatli or The Sundays, bands I know she would never be exposed to without having a father like me. It makes me smile every time.

Because serious musical conversations with others is one of my favorite things, I'm sharing my summer playlist with you. These are the songs that define summer for me. Enjoy.

tidbits

Summer has finally arrived. It is here in full force with oppressive heat and humidity, smokey skies from a few different wildfires burning in Central Washington, and the power of a couple electrical storms that have blown through town in the last week.

It is the anti-school season but that doesn't mean we're taking it easy. The kids have been spending their days in a day camp at a local church and I've been hustling between my day job, my manuscript, college, church, playing with the kids, and spending time with my girlfriend. We are embracing the busy. In the meantime, here are a few snapshots of what life is like in the Casey household.

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JJ

While doing laundry, J noticed the Nike logo on one of my shirts. He's my athlete (and is currently playing rec-league baseball) so he recognizes those things.

"My favorite brand of shoes," he said, "are Nike and Airwalks."
"Yeah?" I replied. "My favorites are Adidasand Vans."
"Oooooh, I like those too. So my favorites are Nike, Airwalks, Adidas, and Vans."
Then I add in another. "Converse makes good shoes. I'd love to get a pair of Chuck Taylors."
"Yeah." JJ stared into space for a moment. "OK, Nike, Airwalks, Adidas, Vans, and Converse. Those are the shoes I like best. Oh, and Under Armour."

Apparently, he has a thing for shoes.

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Zu

We spent the Saturday before Father's Day downtown for the annual Car d'Lane car show and auction. Zu found several cars that she liked or she thought were pretty. But of all of them, there's only one she said she would want to own. This Audi. My girl has expensive, and classy taste.

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Christian

It should be obvious that my oldest is mine. Genetics is a faithful servant. He looks like I did at his age. He inherited my awful coordination and lack of sporty skill. He got my intelligence (although, his mom is exceedingly smart too). And he shares my enthusiasm for all sorts of geekery.

With that in mind, he surprised me when he told about his preferred living arrangement. He said nothing about the size of home. He didn't mention anything about having to share a room with his brother or wanting his own space. Nor did he specify a city, state, or country.

All he said: "I don't want to live close to any neighbors." He's been spending time at his mom's boyfriend's parent's home up north of us. They live on acreage in the middle of the woods. He always has fun there and I think he is growing fond of the idea of shooting targets, building tree-houses, seeing wildlife, and the freedom to wander and explore.

He also told me that if I ever moved onto a large property with a big yard, he would do all the mowing. I'm going to hold him to that promise.

---

Me

Christian isn't the only one warming up to the idea of a country lifestyle. My girlfriend owns a couple horses and has been trying to get me out to see them. This weekend, we finally made it happen. I've always enjoyed riding but growing up in the Seattle suburbs, the opportunity to do so was rare. Then, Sunday evening, I found myself on Roxy, riding late into the night. And for the first time in my life, I was in complete control of where we went, rather than following a guide.

One of the friends riding with us said I looked natural on a horse. Well? I could get used to this.

What's in a Name?

Does your car have a name?

Just about eight years ago, I wrote about how we name things. Primarily homes and vehicles. I gave my first car (an '87 Acura Legend) the name Papa Smurf, but after getting married and starting a family, I was too busy naming pets and children to think about christening my transport. I even lamented the lack of monikers given to my cars in that post.

Mourn no more. If I was bummed that my transportation was nothing more than metal on wheels with no official title beyond make and model, then it was up to me to remedy that situation. Since writing the post about naming things, I set out to do just that once again.

First was a forest green Ford Explorer that wasn't in the best condition. That was "The Hooptie-Mobile." Then came a red Grand Am named "Rebel Red." After Rebel Red's engine imploded, I acquired an old silver Lexus that had some quirks. Some windows wouldn't roll down - one was bondo'd shut. The paint was peeling. The windshield wipers were slightly too big for the windshield, and the wipers only had one speed: frantic. It had something that looked like a bullet hole in the back bumper. And it did not like freeways - shuddering once it reached 50 MPH. But it worked. For a little more than a year, it got me to work, church, and the kids' schools. Thanks to some battery issues when I first got the car, I gave it the name "Ghost." It refused to turn over one morning but started up without qualms later that night. It was as if it knew I was going to have a gooey for lunch that day and insisted I walk to work to burn off the extra calories. Either that or a specter of some sort possessed it for a day, so it became the Ghost.

There is now a new car in my life. And it needs a name. Because of who I am, it deserves a truly geeky alias. Sven? Mjolnir? I don't know yet, but I am open to suggestions.

PS: It's a Honda. And the kids love it.

Fear (In Practice)

Modern society is a peculiar creature. We live in a world where everyone is afraid but no one is willing to admit it. Instead, we hide our fears in the shadows, pretending they either don't exist or can't be seen. This creates a dysfunctional society. Even my 12-year-old knows such cultural rules are not healthy.

Scientists have been studying the effects of secrecy. The white bear experiment in the 80's demonstrated how trying to avoid specific thoughts make us think more frequently about that which we don't want to think about. James Pennebaker has written books on communication and the secrets we keep. He studied victims who experienced violence at a young age, finding health issues were common when they got older because they kept their trauma secret. His book Expressive Writing: Words That Heal specifically focuses on writing as an aid for healing after physical or emotional trauma. Pennebaker argues in favor of divulging personal secrets because there are tangible health benefits. In the bible, the book of James says we should “confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another so that you may be healed.” And Proverbs says, “He who conceals his transgressions will not prosper, But he who confesses and forsakes them will find compassion.”

Clearly, our culture is more than just a little messed up. If scientists, psychologists, therapists, theologians are to be believed, we could all be a bit healthier if we were open and honest about our feelings. The things that scare us. Our worries. Our anxieties. Our doubts. We're not there yet. But if we want to change how society functions, someone must go first. That person will probably look weird. Their actions will be thought of as abnormal. When everyone fakes being fearless because admitting your fear could make you seem weak, those that flaunt their fears will look bizarre and perhaps even foolish. Yet, someone needs to go first.

Allow me to be that weirdo. Why? Well, as John Reuben said in his song No Regrets, “I'm secure enough to admit my insecurity.” Also, I'm not Superman. I'm afraid. A lot.

I'm scared of insignificance. This has been my greatest fear for as long as I can remember. I'm afraid that my efforts will count for nothing. That in the end, who I am and what I do won't matter.

I'm scared that my appeal wears off. I'm afraid that people like me when they first meet me, but once they get to know me, I'm not that interesting. Once you get to know me, there’s always going to be someone more charming, more dashing, better looking, wittier, funnier, more athletic. Once you get to know me, you'll discover you don't need me, like Christopher Robin outgrowing his stuffed bear Poo.

I'm scared of success. What if I actually succeed at my goal of writing professionally? I'm afraid that if I get a publishing contract and become a bestselling author, I would not know how to manage my finances and I would not be able to handle strangers recognizing my name and face everywhere I go.

I'm scared that my good enough isn't really good enough.

I'm scared that I will never be able to lose the weight that I need to lose and my health will suffer because of it.

I'm scared that my divorce has left irreparable scars on my kids. I'm afraid that they will grow up to repeat my mistakes.

I'm scared that no one will show my kids the love and respect I think they deserve. I'm afraid that I can't protect my kids when I'm not with them.

I'm scared for my two younger children. I am afraid that they will face injustice, discrimination, and hatred because of their Native American heritage.

I'm scared of running out of gas while driving. The low fuel warning light fills me with anxiety and I actively try to avoid seeing it turned on.

I'm scared of creepy kids. Movies like Children of the Corn or that episode of Doctor Who with the kids wearing gas masks who keep asking “Are you my mummy?” chill me and frighten me more than any other fictional monster or villain.

Image courtesy of BBC One.

Most of the time, I am just like everybody else. I hide it. I put on a happy face and get through my day. I work, I play, I take care of my kids. Like the saying says: fake it ‘til you make it.

But I am done with the charades. I'm scared y'all. I can't keep pretending to be OK. The cracks are showing, I might as well admit they're there. I'm a mess. I'm in a glass case of emotion. However, I'd be willing to bet you are too.

We are all scared of something, Maybe it's time we admit it.

The Practical One

My daughter is the most practical of my three kids. When presented with new information, she approaches it with reason and logic in a way that is admirable for any elementary aged kid. At her best, she is calm and collected and almost diabolical in the best way possible.

This trait will serve her well as she grows up and faces teenaged drama. But for now, she delivers eight year old wisdom with pluck and grace. It has its downside though. She has the tendency to apply her sense of practicality to my daydreams.

Perhaps I should explain.

We were out running errands and stopped at a traffic light. While waiting, a Porche Carrera slipped by in the lane next to us and joined us in the line for a green light. It was a couple years old and had a freshly detailed shine.

I whistled, perhaps even purred. "That is a beautiful Porche," I said.

"What's a Porche?" JJ asked.

I gave the simplest answer that I could think of. It is a vehicular work of art. They're expensive, fast, and stylish.

Then Zu came in with her logic. "Is there a back seat in a Porche?"

"Well, no." I answered.

"Ugh." Zu expressed instant judgement. "Then you can't have one, Daddy."

Her practical mind recognized that she and her brothers would not be able to ride with me if my budget magically allowed me to own a Porche.

image courtesy of Top Car Rating

Zu repeated this practicality a little later. We were on our way home from church and passed a new Mazda MX-5 convertible. Once again, I made a remark about the attractive car and Zu instantly noticed the problem. "No, Dad, there isn't a back seat. You can't have one."

That Mazda reminded me of an item on my bucket list. Someday, when the kids are grown and on their own, I want to rent a sporty little convertible like that Mazda and drive the entire length of the 101 from the Olympic Peninsula, down the Pacific coast through Washington, Oregon, and California to Los Angeles. If I'm married, it is the kind of trip I would want to take with my wife. We would stop anywhere along the road that looks interesting and enjoy the sights and flavors of the quintessential left coast experience.

I am always looking for opportunities to inspire my kids and encourage them to dream big. So I took the opportunity to share my dream with them. I explained it in a brief summary, taking care to explain this is something that wouldn't happen until they were all adults.

Zu was not supportive. Her first concern is that she wouldn't get to go with me. I stressed again that this is something that I would not do while they still lived at home. I would wait until they were grownups and had their own families and careers. I told her that I believe it is important for us to set goals and dreams - even if it is something that isn't going to happen for another 20 or 30 years.

That helped her feel better, however she was still not convinced. "But dad," she objected, "what if JJ still lives at home?"

"Oh, Zu. I would wait until all of you have your own life."

"But what if JJ doesn't?"

She was serious. My daughter was legitimately concerned that her younger brother will never move out. With that assumption, Zu's practical mind could not accept the idea of daddy leaving little bro behind.

A tale of two drivers

We were both first in line waiting on a read light to switch colors to a permissive green. Him in the right lane and me in the left.

With the warm weather, we both had windows down. Music was cranked to loud (but not obnoxious) volumes; high enough to register in neighboring vehicles, but not so loud to drown out or overpower their radios or conversations.

Our situations were similar, but the status of our predicaments were radically disparate. Consider the following.

He was sitting in a shiny fresh-from-the-car-wash ebony Volkswagen Jetta with tinted windows, lowered suspension, low profile tires, and custom rims. My car has never been washed, and the only money spent on it was for standard maintenance and repairs.

He stared strait forward with an iron grip on his steering wheel, jaw clenched, cigarette held outside his window, and was listening to thrash metal. I was smiling like a fool and bobbing my head to the beat of Michael Jackson's Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough.

I hate to make assumptions, but I'd be willing to bet I was enjoying my day far more than my incidental companion at the stoplight. Then again, I also have something hanging from my mirror reminding me why I have reason to be happy.

In my head

During the commute to and from work, there is a void to fill. Some people listen to music. Others have podcasts or audiobooks playing. And talk radio is also an option. A few people use that time to pray (hopefully with their eyes open).

Me? I prefer music. I don't car-dance, but I do like to sing along.

Unfortunately, my car stereo is broken. The silence drives me crazy. These days, more often than not, I find myself praying. I assure you I keep my eyes on the road; I do not have the faith to praise Jesus with my eyes closed down Ramsey and over the freeway at 35 MPH.

I pray. But my brain tends to work better to the beat of a drum so sometimes that prayer comes out as a song that I have stuck in my head. Sometimes I offer those lyrics as my way of talking to God. Sometimes I feel as if that is God's way of speaking to me.

Interestingly, there are a couple of songs that I have playing inside my brain more frequently than others.

During the morning drive, the most common song I have on my mind is Bobby McFerrin's 'Don't Worry Be Happy.' When driving home, it is Tears for Fears' 'Everybody Wants To Rule The World.'

If God is really using these songs to give me some sort of message, I wonder. What is He is trying to tell me?

P is for Power pt 1: The Power of Pause

It was during an afternoon commute north on 95. Late afternoon. It's the only time of day when that stretch of Coeur d'Alene highway experiences a genuine rush hour. I switched from the slow lane into the fast lane to get around a logging truck and discovered a second logging truck a few car lengths ahead of me in this new lane of traffic. After those few cars all moved into the turn lane, I had nothing in front of me, except freshly cut timber.

Lights ahead turned red and we rolled to a stop. There, with one fully loaded logging truck ahead of me and another to my right, I had a revelation.

However, before I unpack this sudden brush with wood inspired wisdom, I need to talk about Trevor.

Who is Trevor?

When my family moved into a new house during the summer before I entered the third grade, Trevor quickly became my best friend. There was one house in between his and mine, but the casa Casey was situated on a two acre corner lot. Due to the size of the property, our back yard almost connected with Trevor's back yard, so he was practically a neighbor. We were close enough that when dinner time approached, all my mom would have to do is stick her head out the back door and yell my name. I'd hear her and go running back home.

There are a few big reasons I enjoyed hanging out with Trevor. The first is that he owned a Nintendo - a luxury that my parents could never afford. I would also watch some shows at his place that my parents wouldn't allow, primarily Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The final reason I liked hanging out at Trevor's place became more apparent as we got older. His little sister was super cute and by the time we were in junior high, I had a massive crush on her.

What does getting stuck in traffic have to do with Trevor and my boyhood crush on his little sister?

Excellent question.

Trevor had great parents. They wouldn't let us spend all of our time indoors playing video games and watching TV. They frequently sent us outside, rain or shine.

There was an empty lot between our back yards. It was the battlefield where we played out our summertime squirt gun wars. It was the arena where I played tag with Trevor and his sister. It was the setting where I became infatuated with her jet black hair, tanned skin, and bashful laugh.

At the far end of that empty lot was a row of pine trees. Their lowest branches were close enough to the ground that it was easy to scramble up into the boughs and climb higher and higher until the branches were too thin to support our weight. We spent many afternoons clinging to bark high above the ground. More often than not, by the time I heard my mother yell, "NICHOLAS!!!" my hands were sticky with sap and I had pine needles tangled in my hair.

But now I'm stuck in traffic. This is North Idaho and what we call rush hour pales in comparison to the I-5 Boeing traffic that I grew up with in Seattle. But I am not a patient man. Slow drivers tend to annoy me. Semi trucks in the fast lane tend to bother me. Being stuck at a red light when I'm in a hurry to get to my destination tends to frustrate me.

(I never claimed to be perfect.)

But that afternoon, despite the annoyance of slow traffic and being stuck at a red light behind a semi in the fast lane, I had an out-of-character reaction. With both of my windows down, with former trees stacked up in front of and beside me, I took a deep breath. I fully inhaled the odors of recently cut pine. And I just enjoyed the moment for what it was.

My natural inclination would have been to grumble. Instead, I found a bit of happiness in that piney sappy scent wafting through my car. For just a moment I allowed my life to pause. Instead of dwelling on whatever problems existed in my life, I breathed in every ounce of calm and peace that floated by along with that smell of lumberjack's labor. In the time it took for the rotation of lights by Fred Meyer to cycle through and give me a green light, that refreshing aroma reminded me of Trevor. And his sister. It reminded me of better days, years of blissful innocence. It reminded me of those countless times I squirrelled my way into the tree tops and the evenings I ran home for dinner smelling like a forest. The revelation hit. I could chose to be frustrated or choose to accept my circumstance.

That minute of pause was a return to joy.

Every now and then, we need to push that pause button. Our lives are hectic and demanding. Stressors abound. Demands unrelenting. Left to our own devices, it's easy to let these outside influences steer the course of our day to day routine. We need that pause to give ourselves a refreshed perspective. To recharge our internal batteries. To experience a momentary reprieve from our burdens.

That's the power of pause. To rest.

And rest isn't easy. It takes practice. As the son of a workaholic (who exhibits some of those same tendencies), I don't truly know how to rest. Intellectually speaking, I know it's important. Selah. In actual practice, however, I have a hard time fully and tangibly resting. But this past summer I made considerable efforts to do just that.

I've largely been absent from the blogging world since May. My writing pace slowed to a noticeable trickle. It's hard to write from the heart when your heart is not in the right place. So I needed a break. I needed to push pause. I devoted as much time as I could to enjoying the summer with my kids. I took them hiking, something that I myself haven't done since I moved away from Seattle in '99. I started going to concerts again, local shows. That's an element that has been absent from my life since I lived in Boise. I rekindled the joys I once found in live music and dirt paths through the woods. I loved every minute and along the way I discovered a few things. I found that one of the most peaceful places on Friday mornings in Coeur d'Alene is sitting on the edge of the amphitheater stage at Riverstone Park, with my feet dangling in the water, watching the ducks swim by close enough that you could kick them. (note: I don't condone kicking ducks). I discovered the light of fireworks reflected in my children's eyes. I discovered energy that I didn't know I had while walking around the fair grounds with my three kids for seven hours. I learned that truth always wins.

One other thing I discovered, or rather rediscovered, is who I am. Why I write. The kind of person I want to be. Why I embrace geekery. And where this path is taking me. Thanks to the power of pause, I'm driven. I know why God stuck my love for pop culture and theology in a blender. Those synapses in my cranium are bursting. I'm ready to be me again.

All because I got stuck between logging trucks at a red light during an afternoon commute and it reminded me of a kid I once knew named Trevor. And his younger sister.

Through my son's eyes: Car d'Lane

Christian approached Car d'Lane with his iPod in hand, snapping picture after picture of the cars lined up for the auction near Independence Point. These are the seven best from his little shoot.

Dear driver,

To the lady driving the candy-apple red Camaro in front of me this morning. Yes, you blondie.

I get it - you're easily ten years my elder and likely a recent Californian transplant. You're trying maintain your fading youth and So-Cal good looks while simultaneously experiencing culture shock and a midlife crisis. These women in North Idaho - they're not like you. They know how to shoot guns. They don't wear Prada. They drive Jeeps. They drink cheap beer. Their husbands have beards. Their husbands have tattoos of beards under their beards. It's OK to be different, but you don't have to buy flashy cars to exert your dominance.

Of course if you feel younger and more attractive from the drivers seat of a hot car, no one would blame you for spending $25 grand to do so while the rest of the nation is in the middle of an economic depression. What's a few thousand dollars worth if it can't help you find happiness?

Please don't misread my reason for writing you. I am not opposed to people wealthier than me driving cars more luxurious than mine. If you can afford to drive a car that costs nearly as much as the median income of your new home town - go for it. I won't begrudge you. I'm not the type that gets jealous of the vehicles driven by other people. Since you drive neither a Dartz Prombron nor a Mini Cooper (the two cars I would most want to see parked in my driveway) there is no cause for envy.

Besides, I am not much of a "car guy." Unlike many of my peers, my fondness for Hot Wheels did not translate into a passion for the life-sized counterparts when I reached adulthood. As a man that isn't that excited about cars I don't drool every time a hotrod passes me. The only reason I know your car is a Camaro is that a freshly reanimated caveman brought to life through cloned DNA from dead mosquitoes discovered in petrified tree sap would recognize your car as a Camaro.

In fact, my problem isn't that you passed me but rather that I had to pass you. As you sat at the red light with your blinker on waiting for non-existent traffic to pass, you failed to take your free right. Once the light turned green and we turned onto Highway 95, you slowly accelerated to a rip-roaring speed of 10 miles an hour under the posted speed limit. I had to go around you. If you are not a soccer-mom in a mini van, there's no reason for you to drive like one (no offense intended to actual soccer-moms in a mini vans who might read this).

Don't you realize what you're driving? It is a modern muscle car. It is a powerful machine. It is designed to go fast. As Chevy advertises, it is head-turning style without the sacrifice of performance. Unfortunately, the only heads you're turning are of drivers that are passing you as you piddle along in the slow lane. It just boggles my mind how you could sit behind the wheel of such a beast, to have the command of pure fury at your fingertips, and pilot that machine like you're afraid a stray leaf in the road might irreparably damage that devilish paint job.

If you are so afraid of scratching up that beautiful sports car, why don't you drive a car that wouldn't wound you if it was struck by an errant shopping cart? Why do you insist on owning a car that keeps in constant fear and paranoia?

Let's make a deal. We can trade. My car is only worth a couple thousand dollars, I am sure you would not be worried if it incurred a bump or ding. You can have my Ford Explorer and drive it like it was meant to be driven. And I would gladly take that Camaro off your hands.

Sincerely,

nic

p.s. - I completely understand if you decline my offer.

Big Trucks

Do you ever get stuck behind an annoying driver while on your way to work? (usually while running late)

I have. Big truck with out of state plates, driving a few miles per hour under the speed limit, swerving in their lane and frequently crossing the yellow line, erratic lane changes without using a blinker...

A few observations:

1) Flame mud flaps. Is that necessary? Oh well, at least it's not a naked lady mud flap or the SKIN logo.

2) Over-sized muffler. It's not really a muffler - it's just a section of the tail pipe that is bigger than the exhaust pipe. The only reason that people replace the stock muffler with those monstrosities is to serve one purpose: to be LOUD.

3) Those out of state plates... (I mention this solely for my lil sis) those are Oregon plates.

4) My final observation is hard to see in the picture (taken from my iPhone's camera) but was the most apparent feature in real life 3D - an absurdly high lift kit. The back bumper was eye level for me, and I drive an SUV with a high center of gravity. An adult of average height would have needed a step ladder (or a running start) to climb/jump into the cab - a hopeless feat for short people like myself. Truck like this are the reason that this facebook group exists. (warning, link contains salty language)

Naming things

In the beginning God created stuff. Then he created man and told man to name that stuff. This whole process of naming things is really a matter of dominance (real or perceived). God said we were to be stewards of the land and that we were to care for all creation. Man thought "I name it I own it." I don't know if God had Adam name everything because God knew man was the coolest thing ever created, or if God realized man's limited memory would cause man to only remember what stuff was called if man gave that stuff a name.

"So the man gave names to all the livestock, the birds of the air and all the beasts of the field." And what began in the earliest of human history we have taken from a privilege and turned it into a right. We've made naming things an art-form, and we've mastered it.

Isn't it amazing how we've perfected this practice of christening things? It started with flora and fauna but we didn't stop there. We name our kids (I'm pretty dang grateful for that one), we named the planets and stars and other celestial bodies, we named our diseases and ailments, we named our cities and countries, and we named hurricanes and mountains and canyons and crayons.

Today, new discoveries are dubbed by the person that found it. Whether it's a new insect, or virus, or comet - it is specified by whichever name given by the discoverer (usually a narcissistic ball of ego who lends his/her own name to the new thing). God forbid I ever discover a hideous ravaging disease - it'd be named plaugus nicholosus epidemis - eww.

But there is another denominating ritual that I find bemusing. Homes and cars. From Graceland to Neverland, the rich have given their homes names that represent their personalities. But even the not-quite-so-rich-or-famous have named their homes.

And then there's cars. We once named the beast of the fields; we now name the beasts of the roads. An old friend and former roommate of mine named all his vehicles. Ten years later I strangely remember them all: Carlos (I think it was an old Buick), Iceberg (a white Ford Escort), and The Rock (a beat up Ford truck). I only named one car - my first. It was an Acura Legend given the moniker Papa Smurf (it was blue & grey). The car Bekah drove when we first met had a couple of nicknames: Santa's Magic Sack and The Pregnant Roller Skate. Neither were practical names for daily usage. But since Papa Smurf and The Pregnant Roller Skate, we've not named any of our cars.

Why do we name our cars? Or houses? Is it so we can claim dominance over these creations? Or are we trying to make the impersonal personal?

Tidbits

Oops. I haven't posted anything for a while. Blog traffic is suffering. I've been a little too distracted by Bejeweled Blitz on facebook. The game is strangely addicting. Besides, there's 17 hours left in the current tournament and I've got to beat my brother's score... and Sam's.




Speaking of facebook: I'm often puzzled by the adds on facebook. Today, I saw an ad for what I assume is a web developer. The title read "Do you have a bad church website?" I'm not sure what they're asking. Do I have a website for a bad church? Or do I have a bad website for a church? I possess neither, but have seen both.




Speaking of odd things: I saw an abandoned Shopko shopping cart in a peculiar location while walking to work recently... the gravel lot across the street from Ironwood Athletic Club. Granted, a gravel lot isn't an unusual place to abandon a stolen shopping cart... but the distance. Roughly 1/2 mile, 5 - 10 minutes walking distance, and crossing Highway 95. If you're going to steal a shopping cart, and make the effort to push that stolen cart across a busy highway - past the hospital... why ditch it in the middle of a commercial complex? Why not go the distance? At least they could have had a little fun - taken a left on Lakewood Dr and ridden the cart down the hill and into Riverstone.




Speaking of things I've seen while walking to work: There is a gloriously obese woman driving a Smart Car who commutes along Ironwood between 5:00 and 5:30 in the morning. Every time she passes me, I can't help but think of Chris Farley's "fat guy in a little coat" song from Tommy Boy. I know it's mean, but I can't help myself. Yet I really want a Smart Fourtwo. On a side note, I saw her in the Jack-in-the-Box drive through this morning. Would that be a cause & effect fallacy if I make a correlation?



One final thought for the day: A coworker had been completely unaware of the torrential downpour that swept through town this morning. When he finally noticed the precipitation outside he asked, "What is this coming down outside?" I answered, "I'm not sure, but it's liquid. And it rhymes with pain."



Anyways... I'm off to play Bejeweled Blitz. See you after I beat my brother!