I have been following Geoff and Liz's blog about living down unda in Australia called "Notes from the Shire". The latest addition is a priceless look at the underbelly of Western Australia and their fascination with cars. I can relate to Geoff's feeling of ignorance when asked about the various "makings" of his ride. Growing up in rural Oregon, a man proved his intelligence by the depth and veracity in which he could describe his trucks engine, tires, or exhaust. I lived at the beginning of the age of "lift kits" and big tires. When guys would come to school with their trucks splattered with mud or spend half the day welding roll bars in shop class. I just never caught the fever.
My first car was a Volkswagen bug. I bought it for $2200 dollars when I was 18 years old for 50$ less than the owner was asking for. My dad let me do the talking that day. Obviously to teach me a lesson about the "haggle" and that is, if you want to haggle you better make a counter offer with a little more meat on it. In the end I was never unhappy about the price. I loved that car. My second vehicle was my parents Nissan truck, my friends affectionately called the "Grey Warrior". I think it got that title after a couple buddies and I drove it down to the tip of Baja and back. My parents had more or less given the truck to me, but it was never registered in my name and for most of the time it was running, it sounded and looked like it shouldn't be.
Five years ago, that truck had 300,000 miles on it and had pretty much stopped running. I remember it got so bad that I would have to push start it myself every day. The time had come for me to go car shopping. It happened to be a time in my life when my lack of experience purchasing a car was really messing with my head. I already had a complex going on the account that I was single, jobless, didn't own a house, and had not really figured out what I wanted in life.
But then I got a job and I felt like it was time to buy a car. For whatever reason I wanted to have a Subaru Sudan. I had found one at a local car dealership, but it was a bit pricey. To get the price down, I enlisted the help of my friend Chris. He is from Queens and has probably owned 50 different cars in his life. He likes to haggle just for the fun of it. The whole experience was hilarious. When we got to the dealership he described with finite accuracy every statement and movement the salesman made, before it even happened.
"No matter what he says, don't sound like you really like the car. Now watch. When he goes back into his office, it will about 4 minutes, he will come back and tell you that his manager things he can go a little lower, but he will have to check some numbers." This all went on for a couple of days until finally Chris told me I would have to make up my mind. "We" had talked them down about 3500$ but they weren't going to drop any farther. I had to think about it. At the time having a car that didn't rattle and squeak seemed to carry so much weight for me. I figured I'd never get a decent date with my old clunker, but I just felt so uneasy about committing myself to 300$ a month payments. What to do..
I don't go to bars alone much. I never have. But Soriah, it was different. The long wooden bar, the familiar faces making drinks, the lovely people that seemed to almost enjoying seeing a guy drinking alone, felt good to me. I walked in that day at a crossroad. Cars seem to define a man. Just like the bars they drink in. Those days a guy couldn't go to Soriah without seeing the familiar face of Nigel. He'd often be alone and he was comfortable in his own skin that way. For one reason he's a Brit. He always looked comfortable alone; doing a crossword, reading, or just easily chatting with whomever was there. They guy is witty. He is brilliant. He is, as he was that day, incredibly present. The thing is, I never felt like I could keep up with Nigel. But that day I didn't really care. When he asked me, "how are things?" I told him the story of my dilemma about buying a car. He looked at me and without even hesitating, nonchalantly said, "well it would seem to be your lucky day mate. How about I sell you my car?" What? I didn't even know the guy could drive. He's a Brit for Christ's sake. He told me that his 87' Saab had been sitting for over a year and that it probably only needed a battery. The fact was he had finally decided to donate it. How much did he want to sell it for I asked. How about $1 was his reply. How could I say no? Two days later I met him at the gated entrance to his apartment complex parking lot, with a battery in hand. The only problem was that I had forgotten to bring the symbolic dollar bill. Reaching inside the console I found $2.43. I paid Nigel and pocketed the other $1.43. I like to tell people I made a a buck forty on the deal. In the end, Nigel really taught me the true lesson of the haggle. Just put it out there. It will come to ya.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Lil Dale and the Hair of the Goat
In recounting the "gastronomic odyssey", my traveling partner got the details a bit confused (read Jason's comments on my last post "Sculpting the Blues"). But given the extent of our inebriation during that journey, I am impressed that he would remember anything about the particulars. It is true that our visit to Santa Fe generated some odd "plates of shrimp". That night at El Farol had been magical. When we got back to Michelle's house we stayed up late sharing stories, laughing, and drinking wine. In a forelorn manic way, Michelle told us about her pet goat that she had given away, only days before we had arrived. In all her artistic, beautiful madness, Michelle had decided to take on a goat as a pet. Classic. But in the end after numerous articles of clothing, books, and paintings had been devoured, she had decided a pet goat should be left to the memories of her childhood in Caracas.
It is true that I slept outside that night under the brilliant stars of the New Mexican sky. It is true that all I had was a Navajo blanket woven with patterns that resembled number three's. But up until that frigid evening we had not discussed Dale Earnhardt. The next morning we set out again, hoping to drive straight through to Los Angeles. All three of us, Eric, Jason, and I, were equally hung over. We ended up stopping at a Bob's big Boy on the Navajo reservation. Sitting there, powering through double bacon cheeseburgers, the lads noticed that I was covered in "animal hair". I explained to them, that the blanket I had slept under must have been the goat's blanket. It was only then, in the happenstance of the moment that I recalled an article I had read about the birth of Lil Dale (http://www.courant.com/sfl-73goat.jpg,0,1673519.photo) and the subsequent hysteria that happened along with that miraculous event. Most of my readers might not remember this, but when Dale Earnhardt died it was a major event for Nascar Nation. At that time our country seemed insane and out of control to us, with the invasion of Iraq, Bush's popularity, Nascar seemed to represent the dominant paradigm of the time.
At some point, I had read the article about Lil Dale and it had struck me because 100,000's of Dale Earnhardt fans had pilgrimaged to see that goat. So there, in the Bob's big boy I was describing the coincidence of the blanket's patterns and recounting that story to the boys. At that moment, as Eric looked on, and almost exactly as I finished telling the story, he pointed saying, "You mean that Dale Earnhardt?" Looking to the front entrance, a large Navajo had entered wearing a t-shirt embossed with an image of the Earnhardt and a large "#3". We were all feeling the "hair of the goat"....
It is true that I slept outside that night under the brilliant stars of the New Mexican sky. It is true that all I had was a Navajo blanket woven with patterns that resembled number three's. But up until that frigid evening we had not discussed Dale Earnhardt. The next morning we set out again, hoping to drive straight through to Los Angeles. All three of us, Eric, Jason, and I, were equally hung over. We ended up stopping at a Bob's big Boy on the Navajo reservation. Sitting there, powering through double bacon cheeseburgers, the lads noticed that I was covered in "animal hair". I explained to them, that the blanket I had slept under must have been the goat's blanket. It was only then, in the happenstance of the moment that I recalled an article I had read about the birth of Lil Dale (http://www.courant.com/sfl-73goat.jpg,0,1673519.photo) and the subsequent hysteria that happened along with that miraculous event. Most of my readers might not remember this, but when Dale Earnhardt died it was a major event for Nascar Nation. At that time our country seemed insane and out of control to us, with the invasion of Iraq, Bush's popularity, Nascar seemed to represent the dominant paradigm of the time.
At some point, I had read the article about Lil Dale and it had struck me because 100,000's of Dale Earnhardt fans had pilgrimaged to see that goat. So there, in the Bob's big boy I was describing the coincidence of the blanket's patterns and recounting that story to the boys. At that moment, as Eric looked on, and almost exactly as I finished telling the story, he pointed saying, "You mean that Dale Earnhardt?" Looking to the front entrance, a large Navajo had entered wearing a t-shirt embossed with an image of the Earnhardt and a large "#3". We were all feeling the "hair of the goat"....
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Sculpting the Blues
Back in 2003 my buddy Jason, his best friend Eric, and I took a three week road trip that culminated in New Orleans for the Jazz fest. It was a trip I will never forget and truly cemented my friendship with these two fine fellows. All three of us were at crossroads in our lives; for me a promising start to my professional career, for Eric probably his last hurrah as a single man, and for Jason who was fresh from a divorce, his life was in a sense beginning again. We all relished the opportunity to travel across the country without expectations, without any real responsibility, and with an openness to happenstance. All three of us are foodies. We each love food and we all love discovering eclectic eateries, and experimenting with the culinary montage. It was Eric who turned me on to Chowhound, a great site on the web for sharing the best places for great eats. It was eating and discovering good restaurants that was the guiding force behind our trip. Of course we were headed to New Orleans for the music and the revelry that draws many of us back to that great city. Each of us had been there before, both Eric and Jason for previous Jazz festivals, myself for conferences and a Mardi Gras years prior. But along the way we were eager to discover new restaurants, share with each other places we knew, and partake in a gastronomic odyssey.
Over the next few weeks I plan to share some of those places we visited and the stories that came with those incredible meals. There were some incredible coincidences that I'd like to share too. Look for future postings: Patting Papa's Head and Hair of the Goat...
But this morning I'd like to share with you one of the great moments of wonderment that occurred on the trip. Like my last post (Sacred Mud), this plate of shrimp was served up in the Southwest. We had spent nearly two weeks traveling to New Orleans where we spent a solid four days in that city. We had eaten many incredible meals, met and reveled with amazing folks, and heard a tremendous array of music. The final act we heard was the legendary Buddy Guy. I remember walking to Liuzza's for our last bloody Mary when a large white Cadillac rolled by with Buddy Guy sandwiched between two big haired ladies. It was a classic scene, one I will always remember. Traveling southwest after the Jazzfest, took us through Texas and into New Mexico. We had an incredible Texmex breakfast at Cisco's in Austin, where we ate migas and chorizo omelets. Then we happened upon the Cattleman's steakhouse outside of El Paso, where we ate steaks bigger than our heads surrounded by rich Mexican business men in ten gallon hats. In Santa Fe we stayed with my old friend Michelle and ended up at the El Farol, one of the oldest bars in that area. Michelle was living in this incredible villa at the time. It was an older pueblo styled house with huge raw beams and and terracotta tiled floors. Michelle is a character; an artist from Caracas Venezuela, she grew up in New York City. She is a culinary student in Thailand now and she never fails to surprise me with her zest for life and beauty. At the time she was seeing a fellow named Kareem who owned a rug store in the downtown plaza of Santa Fe. The two of them took us to El Farol which was packed with young hippsters. We all piled into Kareem's van and I remember sitting on rolled rugs in the back as we bounced through the night along the narrow streets near downtown. It was impossible to find a seat in the bar until Michelle and I squeezed into a booth with an older couple who both were wearing dark sunglasses. The man looked a lot like Samual Jackson and at first I was sure it was him. The woman had dark hair and was slightly built, reminded me of the actress from the Matrix. There was blues band just ripping the place up and it was loud. I was sitting closest to the woman when she leaned into my ear and yelled, "I think you are sitting on my beer." At that moment it struck me that they were wearing dark sun glasses because they were blind. I slid the beer into her hands and we began to have a conversation over the roar of the music and buzz of the place. She told me how she loved the blues and was in love with a guitarist who lived in Louisiana. I told her that my friends and and that we were on our way back from the jazz festival. In fact, I said, "we actually got to see Buddy Guy."
"That is an interesting coincidence," she said.
"I am flying up to Chicago next week to sculpt his face."
As it turned out she was an artist who was working on series of busts celebrating great blues musicians. She gave me her card, which happened to be in braille, but I have to admit I have never followed up on contacting her. We ended up dancing and she was unbelievably perceptive and graceful in that mass of spinning bodies. She'd twirl away from me, only to find my hands and giggle in the milieus of deep harmonica and gravelly soul. At one point she grabbed the harmonica player by his suspenders and the three of us were interlinked in a long groove of sweat and sound. It was an evening that I will never forget. A true, cosmic plate of shrimp, that make the dance of being, a real joy.... true wonderment.
Over the next few weeks I plan to share some of those places we visited and the stories that came with those incredible meals. There were some incredible coincidences that I'd like to share too. Look for future postings: Patting Papa's Head and Hair of the Goat...
But this morning I'd like to share with you one of the great moments of wonderment that occurred on the trip. Like my last post (Sacred Mud), this plate of shrimp was served up in the Southwest. We had spent nearly two weeks traveling to New Orleans where we spent a solid four days in that city. We had eaten many incredible meals, met and reveled with amazing folks, and heard a tremendous array of music. The final act we heard was the legendary Buddy Guy. I remember walking to Liuzza's for our last bloody Mary when a large white Cadillac rolled by with Buddy Guy sandwiched between two big haired ladies. It was a classic scene, one I will always remember. Traveling southwest after the Jazzfest, took us through Texas and into New Mexico. We had an incredible Texmex breakfast at Cisco's in Austin, where we ate migas and chorizo omelets. Then we happened upon the Cattleman's steakhouse outside of El Paso, where we ate steaks bigger than our heads surrounded by rich Mexican business men in ten gallon hats. In Santa Fe we stayed with my old friend Michelle and ended up at the El Farol, one of the oldest bars in that area. Michelle was living in this incredible villa at the time. It was an older pueblo styled house with huge raw beams and and terracotta tiled floors. Michelle is a character; an artist from Caracas Venezuela, she grew up in New York City. She is a culinary student in Thailand now and she never fails to surprise me with her zest for life and beauty. At the time she was seeing a fellow named Kareem who owned a rug store in the downtown plaza of Santa Fe. The two of them took us to El Farol which was packed with young hippsters. We all piled into Kareem's van and I remember sitting on rolled rugs in the back as we bounced through the night along the narrow streets near downtown. It was impossible to find a seat in the bar until Michelle and I squeezed into a booth with an older couple who both were wearing dark sunglasses. The man looked a lot like Samual Jackson and at first I was sure it was him. The woman had dark hair and was slightly built, reminded me of the actress from the Matrix. There was blues band just ripping the place up and it was loud. I was sitting closest to the woman when she leaned into my ear and yelled, "I think you are sitting on my beer." At that moment it struck me that they were wearing dark sun glasses because they were blind. I slid the beer into her hands and we began to have a conversation over the roar of the music and buzz of the place. She told me how she loved the blues and was in love with a guitarist who lived in Louisiana. I told her that my friends and and that we were on our way back from the jazz festival. In fact, I said, "we actually got to see Buddy Guy."
"That is an interesting coincidence," she said.
"I am flying up to Chicago next week to sculpt his face."
As it turned out she was an artist who was working on series of busts celebrating great blues musicians. She gave me her card, which happened to be in braille, but I have to admit I have never followed up on contacting her. We ended up dancing and she was unbelievably perceptive and graceful in that mass of spinning bodies. She'd twirl away from me, only to find my hands and giggle in the milieus of deep harmonica and gravelly soul. At one point she grabbed the harmonica player by his suspenders and the three of us were interlinked in a long groove of sweat and sound. It was an evening that I will never forget. A true, cosmic plate of shrimp, that make the dance of being, a real joy.... true wonderment.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Sacred Mud
This winter will mark the 11th year since my father passed away. I miss him very much. I often think about what we have not been able to share together, especially this year. Marrying the woman of my dreams, having my son Leo, and voting for the first black man to be elected president are 3 of the most incredible moments of my life. In honor of my father and his service as an air force cadet and graduate of the Academy 66', I would like to share one of my greatest moments of wonderment.
In the spring of 98' I decided to travel to the southwestern part of the states and spread my father's ashes in some of the places I knew he had been to and some that I knew he would like to have visited. The previous year, areas in New Mexico and Arizona had experienced many wildfires. The following winter had brought heavy rains, so there had been predictions of a wonderful wildflower bloom. My dad was an avid gardener and loved flowers of all kinds. I loaded my bike in my old Nissan pickup and headed out through Idaho, Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and Nevada. It was an incredible trip with many memorable experiences. While I was in New Mexico I visited my friend Tina who lived in Santa Fe. She suggested that I visit a town called Taos. At the time, I was not very familiar with this town or the surrounding area. "You will have to decide to take the high or the low road," Tina said. Not realizing the significance of either, nor realizing the timing of my trip, I set out. Soon, I started to notice large numbers of people walking along side the road. Almost all these folks were dressed in traditional southwestern styled outfits and they were all clearly of Indian or of Hispanic decent. It was a beautiful morning and I had a feeling that some type of event was happening. After making the turn onto the high road the number of people walking became to great and I decided to get out of my truck. I asked where they were going and I found out that they were making a sacred pilgrimage to the small village of Chimayo'.. I walked with the people up a beautiful valley to find a long line of people waiting to enter the small church there in the town. Supposedly mud from the floor of this small chapel has healing powers. I did not wait in the line that day, but instead found a small stand that sold buttered corn and large dill pickles. I sat along the road and watched the people and the many low riders that lined the streets, in honor of Good Friday.
It was a wonderful day.
A few weeks later when I arrived back in Oregon a package was waiting for me. It was from an old friend who I had not spoken to for over a year. She was not even aware that my father had died. In the package was a simple note that described how she had felt the urge to send me a small satchel of mud from the church in Chimayo. She no longer lived in the southwest, having moved to the bay area. It was an amazing coincidence. For many years now I have passed on the mud to various people in need or suffering. It is gone now, but the memory of that day at Chimayo and that wonderful gift waiting for me on return, will always be strong.
In the spring of 98' I decided to travel to the southwestern part of the states and spread my father's ashes in some of the places I knew he had been to and some that I knew he would like to have visited. The previous year, areas in New Mexico and Arizona had experienced many wildfires. The following winter had brought heavy rains, so there had been predictions of a wonderful wildflower bloom. My dad was an avid gardener and loved flowers of all kinds. I loaded my bike in my old Nissan pickup and headed out through Idaho, Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and Nevada. It was an incredible trip with many memorable experiences. While I was in New Mexico I visited my friend Tina who lived in Santa Fe. She suggested that I visit a town called Taos. At the time, I was not very familiar with this town or the surrounding area. "You will have to decide to take the high or the low road," Tina said. Not realizing the significance of either, nor realizing the timing of my trip, I set out. Soon, I started to notice large numbers of people walking along side the road. Almost all these folks were dressed in traditional southwestern styled outfits and they were all clearly of Indian or of Hispanic decent. It was a beautiful morning and I had a feeling that some type of event was happening. After making the turn onto the high road the number of people walking became to great and I decided to get out of my truck. I asked where they were going and I found out that they were making a sacred pilgrimage to the small village of Chimayo'.. I walked with the people up a beautiful valley to find a long line of people waiting to enter the small church there in the town. Supposedly mud from the floor of this small chapel has healing powers. I did not wait in the line that day, but instead found a small stand that sold buttered corn and large dill pickles. I sat along the road and watched the people and the many low riders that lined the streets, in honor of Good Friday.
It was a wonderful day.
A few weeks later when I arrived back in Oregon a package was waiting for me. It was from an old friend who I had not spoken to for over a year. She was not even aware that my father had died. In the package was a simple note that described how she had felt the urge to send me a small satchel of mud from the church in Chimayo. She no longer lived in the southwest, having moved to the bay area. It was an amazing coincidence. For many years now I have passed on the mud to various people in need or suffering. It is gone now, but the memory of that day at Chimayo and that wonderful gift waiting for me on return, will always be strong.
Don't think about Pigs
It has been a while since I posted on the blog. My apologies to my faithful reader. An 8 month son, a hectic job, life, it all has been a swirl..and I am still basking in post-Obama sunshine. It truly is a dream, although America in general, is a bit of a nightmare these days. It has been a week since this historical moment was realized. Finally...
Saturday night I had the pleasure of eating a wonderful meal with a good friend and his father at a new restaurant in town called "Belly". It is a savory kind of place. Unfortunately, this evening coincided with Heather's mom making a wonderful home cooked meal in honor of her sister being in town. During their meal they decided to toast my absence with a rather strange statement led by Heather's aunt. "Let's send a mental message to Toby-don't think about pigs." Random? Yes. Odd? Yes. But true none the less. So you can imagine how they were all very amused to hear the next morning where I had eaten dinner. Especially when Heather noted that "Belly" has a pig as it's icon...
Wonderment....
Saturday night I had the pleasure of eating a wonderful meal with a good friend and his father at a new restaurant in town called "Belly". It is a savory kind of place. Unfortunately, this evening coincided with Heather's mom making a wonderful home cooked meal in honor of her sister being in town. During their meal they decided to toast my absence with a rather strange statement led by Heather's aunt. "Let's send a mental message to Toby-don't think about pigs." Random? Yes. Odd? Yes. But true none the less. So you can imagine how they were all very amused to hear the next morning where I had eaten dinner. Especially when Heather noted that "Belly" has a pig as it's icon...
Wonderment....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
