Almost Darwin Award

'Get the gas can out, we may need to prime the carburetor.'

The old Ford truck was on the side of the road in a backwood section of Oklahoma near Keystone Lake. As far as we could tell, the truck was out of gas. The engine would turn over, but there was no sound indicating that there was fuel igniting. However, the gage said a quarter tank.

I pop the hood and take the air filter off, and Sean leans over the engine with a cigarette in his mouth doing his best impression of a mechanic.

'It must be something in the wiring...damn that hurts!' as the smoke rolls into his eyes, 'How the hell do they do that?'

'They probably don't when the carburetorwith gasoline inside is exposed, don't be stupid and watch yourself.'

I pour a little bit of gasoline in the carburetorand tell Sean to turn the key. The truck gives a satisfying rumble for about three seconds, and then dies again.

I said, 'What the hell is going on here?'

I took the hose off the fuel filter and gas drained from it. I tell Sean there might be a bubble somewhere in the fuel line and we need to continuously prime the carburetoruntil the bubble clears out. I start slowly pouring gas in the top of the carburetoras he turns the key. The truck runs continously for about fifteen seconds and then

WHOOSHHH!

Backfire! The nozzle of the gas can catches on fire and instinctively I throw it away from me, while Sean yells 'Shit!' as he gets out of the truck. A stream of fire pours out of the can but, luckily, it doesn't explode.

For a brief second, I had visions of burn wards dancing in my head. I could only imagine the rest of my life, people staring, then looking away, wondering What the hell happened to him?

I look at Sean and say,

'So who was stupid now...'

One Man's Treasure...

One month of learning and a year of fairly regular practice, all for this moment. I began playing Paganini's Sonata Concertante at a brisk pace. The guitar amplification is good, and the new strings ring with multi-layered tones, and I'm playing well. The intro goes by quickly with the bass and treble lines in perfect synchronization.

I move to the first solo and my fingers are flying all over the fretboard. I can hear every note ring in time, and the change to the second verse was flawless. A slightly slow passage before the cadenza and I believe that I will nail it this time. In spite of the difficulty, and I do. I hit the last chord with two bass notes to finish. I smile to myself, finally.

I look up, and hear one enthusiastic clap from another player in the audience. The rest didn't give a damn. One year of tired forearms, sore fingers, and frustration. And for all they cared, I just played Mary Had A Little Lamb.

The Not So Simple Life

I'm on a direct flight to Charlotte, North Carolina, and the man and wife sitting next to me are returning home from their vacation to Hawaii. They rave about Hawaii, and he mentions how he lost 70% of his pension because he was laid off six months before his retirement was fully vested. I mention how I think that should be a crime, the vesting period should have been linear.

We both eat a basil, mozzarella, and tomato sandwich that may pass for 'restaurant quality' in Ethiopia, but not anywhere in the States. He looks at me and says, 'That was good if you're hungry.'

A Rose By Any Other Name...

"What is that f*cking smell!?"

That same phrase was uttered about a hundred times in two days.

We expected a bit of ripeness in the one bedroom apartment, partly because there were ten people sleeping in it, but mostly because when we weren't sleeping, we were on Bourbon Street in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. As anyone can tell you, you don't walk in the drainage ditch because the mud isn't made of only water...

Our shoes were outside for a second day, and the apartment was smelling worse and worse. Jill had cleaned out the alligator cage, (yes, you read that correctly), so our choices seemed limited to the kitchen and bathroom. It was so rancid that it had to be biological.

Finally, using my keen sense of smell, I traced it to the fireplace. That seemed to be an odd place for it. I pulled away the suitcase (no better place for it), and saw a lovely cat turd emanating it's fragrance for all to enjoy.

When we took the picture, the cat licked it's paw.