Anecdotes

Pure Grease: How to frost a car

June - 4 - 2009

Yet another friend of mine told me about how when he was young, he’d buy a used car for a hundred bucks or so, fix it up, then drive it until it fell apart. Then he’d just buy another one and do it all over again. This was, by the way, back in the 50s when you could actually get a car for a hundred bucks.

He said he’d usually just sand down the car and then put grey primer on it and drive it around like that. Maybe he’d paint it, maybe he wouldn’t. Probably not.

There was one particular car he just wasn’t satisfied with. He thought it looked a little bland with just the flat grey primer, so he thought, “What if I could shine it up a bit?” So he decided the best way to do that would be to rub Vaseline all over it. That would shine it up real nice.

“You know,” he told me, “The strange thing was that it was real nice and shiny, but everything stuck to it.”

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Thanks, but no thanks

June - 4 – 2009

I have a friend who revealed to me that he once canceled Thanksgiving dinner because his sister-in-law had a boyfriend that no one could stand being around. It was simply easier not to celebrate Thanksgiving than to think of a way to un-invite him.

Chalk One Up for Dad

September - 24 - 2009

A friend and his little boy found their way to the restroom at the restaurant and decided to share a stall, that way they could be quick and efficient by doing their business at the same time.

The little boy exclaimed as they tinkled, “Wow dad, mine’s like a crayon and yours is like sidewalk chalk!”

The father chuckled as they left the stall. So did the man washing his hands at the sink.

Get a Grip

June - 4 – 2009

I once had a friend of Italian descent who decided to go to Italy to experience his heritage firsthand. He’d been reading through his Italian phrase book and felt that he’d attained a working knowledge of the language, and decided to test his new skills in a restaurant in Rome.

When the waiter asked my friend, in Italian, what my he wanted to drink, he answered, “Grippa.” The waiter asked, in Italian, “Are you sure?” My friend answered, “Si.”

What he got was a pair of pliers instead of the grappa he thought he’d ordered.

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Two Tired: Ipso Flatso

June - 4 - 2009

Today was the day that the air chose to exit my front tire. It was without warning and without prior symptoms that would indicate this imminent, catastrophic inner tube failure. Its spirit had simply left its vulcanized black, knobbie-tread body.

My inner child was sad to hear about my inner tube. By the time we got to the Balboa Ferry, I was riding on the rim. It sounded like a squeegee — the flat tire, that is — rubbing against the ground. I uttered a sub-audible groan.

I hoped that it was nothing more than a slow leak that needed replenishment. I visualized my path ahead, remembering that there was a bike shop on the peninsula. I’d stop there and ask for air. They wouldn’t turn me down. I’d only been turned down once when I asked for air. It was when I lived in Cleveland. I lived on Carnegie at 105th. I was with my friend Barry. We stopped at a Gulf station where there were some folks chatting with the owner.

I asked, “Do you have air?” No one answered or even looked at me. “Excuse me. Do you have any air?” I asked again. Still nothing. It was as if I was invisible. The only reason I could think that they wouldn’t answer was because I was white.

Yes, I’m white, which would then lead one to believe that they were not.

This moment at the gas station was quite odd. It was a moment of passive-aggression. I was getting the cold shoulder. Typically, I’ve experienced that racism is more direct and confrontational, something I’d learned from my band mates while being the bass player in several black bands. But this was odd. Being the bass player, I’m generally immune from race-based criticism other than someone simply not liking my playing, but how were they to know that I was in the band?

I’ve digressed long enough.

The store owners on Balboa Peninsula were more than happy to help me pump up the tire. I even bought a little pump to take with me… just to be a good customer.
My wife and I left the store and continued on our ride, but it didn’t take more than 5 minutes before my tire was completely flat again. I had to pull over and re-pump. It was either that, or push the bike up and down the boardwalk with me walking beside it.

It was clear that our ride was over after the fourth time I had to re-pump. There wasn’t even a choice of riding on the flat tire; the bike shimmied and swerved. It was impossible to ride without crashing on a flat front tire.

We made our way back home eventually. Riding. Pumping. Riding. Pumping. My inner child just wanted to get the bike home so I could drive to the bike store to buy a new tube. The tube, after all, was 20 years old so it was time for it to make its transition to the next plane.

I bought a tube and I installed it. We’ve all known people who buy a new puppy when their dog dies because it makes them feel better. I bought a new tube and now I feel better. ” It’s nice and round now, this tire is,” I thought as I uttered a sub-audible sigh of relief.

And the award goes to…