The things that carry us.

The old girl in her native habitat.

Reading this article reminded me of one of the eccentricities of automotive loving folks: we tend to name our vehicles. In a mildly sexist way, most vehicles seem to end up being women. Coaxed to start by gently cooing, "Come on, baby" on cold mornings and cheered onto the freeway with an "Atta girl!" it's not a demeaning reflection on womankind in general, but more of the male realization that some things in life require more attention and care than others.

The first run of cars I had were all given gender-neutral names. the '81 Honda known universally as the Aluminum Mallard after a favorite video game, the '88 Toyota that was the Fiberglass Falcon to keep the joke going and the '89 Honda that was the nail in the coffin for the running gag was known as the Bronze Buzzard. My motorcycle (of which I have written about previously with much longing and heartbreak) picked up the name Karen, a corruption of the Japanese word Kirin, and has treated me like an on-again, off-again lover for the duration of our three year relationship.

The Volvo I rescued out of a field in Geer, SC (literally), is both the biggest car and first "adult" car I've ever owned. Buying a station wagon, at the time, seemed like giving up on the run-around, lightweight flickability of the Japanese imports of my youth. And while the old girl doesn't bust out the moves like the little chicks of my past, she'll crunch though places the others would fear to tread, and do it with a surprising amount of grace. During the snowfall pictured in the photo above, we went out and cut a series of long looping donuts in a local parking lot. She may not breakdance, but she'll twirl around in lines that would put a ballroom dance to shame.

So she's been nicknamed the Volvinator for a very impressive performance in getting my sorry tail home on a night when the heavens opened up and the streets were flooded past where mortals would dare to tread, but on those times when I discover a wonderful bit of grace engineered into the stout tractor heart of her red-block engine, she'll always be Freja. A stately, yet quirky gal, who'll haul it all a long distance, but always get me back home safely.

Random thoughts, scribbles and other nonsense.

The above image has been my desktop for the past week.

My apologies to Mr. Watterson, but it was the only thing I could look at that made me feel better.

When I had a few free moments in the bum's rush of insanity that was this past weekend, I slowly and carefully re-read my old Calvin & Hobbes books. They made me laugh.

If there's a higher complement than that, I can't think of it.

I'm still numb.

I'm still sad.

But...

I'm still here.

.

"You only get so many chances to screw up your life, you'd better make 'em all count." - Toby Morriss. 1973-2010

Snow Daze.

Slightly confused.


Well insulated.


Blindsided.


Fool's cap.

In light of recent events...

...and in memory of the fallen trees in my front yard from this weekend's storm, I present to you the best love song ever about a natural disaster:

Lost images

A photograph found while cleaning behind the refrigerator.

Backronyms.

It's been cold here in the Southeast. Quite cold. Not Minnesota negative umpty-million cold, but temps in the teens are plenty frickin' cold in a state where buying anti-freeze is something most people will do maybe once in their lives. Water lines have broken in Jackson, MS. Miami got a killing frost. My ponds have been frozen for two weeks.

As a result, the uninsulated, dilapidated hulk I live in has been a cold prison for the last couple of weeks. I've been pouring wood into my heater like it was gasoline into a Hummer, in a futile attempt to keep the atmosphere in my living room above freezing. I've given up on warm. 47°F seems to be the best one can hope for, but you can't see your breath at that temperature, so it at least makes it seem more pleasant.

As such, I've spent a lot of time wearing a coat and sitting on my couch wishing the mercury in the thermometer to rise. Which, no offense to the Tibetan monks who supposedly can do this at will, it hasn't.

So being dark and cold and slightly poor (the state has a weird payment system and I don't get paid between Dec 22 and Jan 15) isn't the sort of thing that leads a person to be cheery. I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder on occasion, and I have a handwritten note on my calendar for the month of February saying "It's okay, you'll be fine in March, calm down." But the combination of the weather and the poverty and the worn-out frozen feeling that my heart and bones had been replaced with those of an ice giant, have left me feeling that same old familiar wrung-out depression.

Fortunately, us music addicts have an easy route to self-medication. Mine has been the album "Weathervanes" from the Freelance Whales. A slightly dark, surreal, bouncy plate of "Hey-it's-not-so-bad-Bucko!" has kept me chugging along through the cold, dark nights. And hey, here's the band performing in a cold dark place, and they're smiling, so yeah. It works.

I've been busy.

Things have been... odd. I'll have more to say later.

Happy new year and all that.

Under the covers, at night.

She likes to hold hands under the covers.

I'll have my hand at my side, and I'll feel her slender, cool fingers slip past my palm, brush against my fingertips briefly before sliding down to lock in with my fingers and then a quick grip of my hand, which I instinctively return, and then she's gone again.

Maybe she just wants to be reminded there's someone else in the dark room. Maybe she heard me snort in my sleep. Maybe she just had a bad dream.

That last one makes me pause...

What do ghosts dream about, and what is a scary dream to them?

"What is cool?" According to JC Whitney, 1968,pt 7

Sure to attract attention!

"What is cool?" According to JC Whitney, 1968,pt 6

And you thought texting was a problem...

"What is cool?" According to JC Whitney, 1968,pt 5

An unusual, attention-getting pedal

Music for gray winter days.

I've been sick, and the weather here in the southeast has been more than accommodating for the past couple of days: rain, drizzle, condensation and cold winds combined with leaden grey clouds have created an environment more conducive to being morose and miserable than any other, with the possible exception of an IRS auditor's office. So I used the weather as a lead-in to indulge myself in more of my favorite, morose, winter music, because it was just that kind of week.

I took the opportunity to return to the work of Bon Iver, because it was on constant rotation pretty much all last winter for me, and always felt somewhat out of place to listen to on a sunny summer day. I was pleased to note that the music held up as well as I remembered after a year off, and found that the song "Blood Bank" has managed to get a death grip on my ear this time around.

I'm not normally a fan of songs that tell a story, but this one tells a neat compact little tale, with a few standout couplets that so that the narrative feels less like a novel, and more like one of Hemingway's short stories. Papa Ernest used to claim that the best and shortest of his stories only had six words: "For sale: baby shoes, never used." The story fills in the space between those words, so instead of feeding you the description, you are forced to work it out for yourself. This song works the same way. In the space of two and one-half verses, you get the gist of an entire life. The narrator tells a short, stream of consciousness story about visiting a blood bank and talking with someone who is never really identified but may in fact be a friend, a lover or a random stranger, about... well, random things. You're introduced to the story already in progress in the eponymous blood bank, looking at bags of donated blood and musings on relatives, mortality and connections. The song hinges on a kiss that isn't necessarily romantic, but more of a human longing for contact with someone, anyone on a cold winter day. And it all finally ends on a reflection on shared secrets, infatuation, and childhood.

I can't say exactly what I've been allowed to witness here, but I'm sure I've been there, and in the back of my mind, I still know exactly what the cold vinyl seats in the car smelled like...

You said "Ain't this just like the present,
To keep showing up like this."
As the moon waned a crescent,
We started to kiss.

Video by sklyrovka on YouTube, who managed to hit the nail on the head.

"What is cool?" According to JC Whitney, 1968,pt 4

Add sports car styling to any car!

"What is cool?" According to JC Whitney, 1968,pt 3

For restyling - for customizing - for street or competition.