Somewhere on a Vashon highway
She rides a Royal Enfield
Her long hair flyin' in the wind
She's been running half her life
The chrome and steel she rides
Collidin' with the very air she breathes
The air she breathes
-Neil Young
Sunday
VME Poker Run
Somewhere on a Vashon highway
She rides a Royal Enfield
Her long hair flyin' in the wind
She's been running half her life
The chrome and steel she rides
Collidin' with the very air she breathes
The air she breathes
-Neil Young
Rude Awakening
Sunday morning, 5-something a.m.
The Cartel boss calls me on my cell phone, waking me before sunrise. He says in a booming voice, "Boy, ya betta get those fucking trucks outa Florida and back to New Orleans." His message is brief and I am rattled.
Hamsini is sleeping soundly by my side. I stumble into the kitchen naked. The house is cold. I turn on the computer and make some tea. I check Ike's track. The bastard Ike is ducking below Florida's foreskin. Ike is going into the Gulf. Nobody knows where Ike is going to hit land. Some are betting on Corpus Christi. The fundamentalists say Ike is going back to New Orleans to finish off the sinners.
I call Christopher in Boston. It is nearly 9 o'clock on the East Coast and he was sleeping, too. He is pissed. He hates guys like me giving him the third degree.
"Where are the trucks?" I ask.
"We finished unloading last night. The crackers are in a warehouse out by Homestead."
"Well, call the Teamsters again and get those snack foods loaded. We need that convey moving towards Baton Rouge."
The Cartel boss calls me on my cell phone, waking me before sunrise. He says in a booming voice, "Boy, ya betta get those fucking trucks outa Florida and back to New Orleans." His message is brief and I am rattled.
Hamsini is sleeping soundly by my side. I stumble into the kitchen naked. The house is cold. I turn on the computer and make some tea. I check Ike's track. The bastard Ike is ducking below Florida's foreskin. Ike is going into the Gulf. Nobody knows where Ike is going to hit land. Some are betting on Corpus Christi. The fundamentalists say Ike is going back to New Orleans to finish off the sinners.
I call Christopher in Boston. It is nearly 9 o'clock on the East Coast and he was sleeping, too. He is pissed. He hates guys like me giving him the third degree.
"Where are the trucks?" I ask.
"We finished unloading last night. The crackers are in a warehouse out by Homestead."
"Well, call the Teamsters again and get those snack foods loaded. We need that convey moving towards Baton Rouge."
Saturday
Palin's Slice of Epiphany
Today I spent the morning playing doctor with the Doctor. You remember her? The good urologist.
After sex, we discussed politics. And ate waffles in bed.
Hamsini asked, did the Republicans resurrect the ancient rite of the Crown Cake to select Bush and now McCain's running mate?
You know, when things got really terrible the Christians baked a cake with a gold coin hidden inside. Whoever got the lucky slice was crowned king for a year (or 8 years in the case of King George W). The half-wit king could do whatever he wanted and nobody protested. The king behaved poorly, of course, as do most who inherit such immense power so suddenly.
The king mobilized the army and attacked other kingdoms just for the hell of it. The king had his way with the ladies (and the livestock, too). He feasted like a glutton and drank all the village wine. But in the old days, after a year of such nonsense, the villagers stoned the king and this made the crops grow tall and all was good again.
McCain and his fundamentalist handlers invited 13 potential vice presidents out to a hangar in Dayton. Everyone was served a big slice of epiphany. Lieberman was there. So was Tom Ridge, Tim Pawlenty, and Carly Fiorina. Guess who cracked a canine on the coin? The pitpull wearing lipstick...
I love Hamsini.
Today's buck went towards a three-pack of Japanese condoms.
Thursday
Cracker Cartel
Episode 11
A confession: I am a reluctant member of the Cracker Cartel. Membership requires participation in nefarious cracker schemes.
Last week, I owned a warehouse full of rancid Triscuits in Yakima. I was planning to give the crackers away as hog food to a couple of farmers. But when the syndicate boss learned about my inventory, he approached me with a plan I could not refuse.
There were other cartel members in Boston, Chicago, and Milwaukee with similarly situated snacks. Cookies with stale cream filling, Bo weeviled biscuits, and blighted peanut butter bars.
With a parade of hurricanes marching across the Atlantic, the plan was to consolidate the snack foods, place our freight in harm’s way, and file an insurance claim for distressed inventory. The syndicate tapped me to run the operation and they expected results.
I told the boss that the math did not work. The plan was not profitable. The boss said, "Don’t forget to count your fingers. They’re priceless."
Then the boss smiled. He advised me to find some enthusiasm for the project and get started. The clock was running.
So I met a Teamster named Christopher in Boston. We met at the Dainty Dot Hosiery building. Outside the day was warm and bright with no hint of the tropical doom bearing down on the East Coast. Boston was crawling with women with bare legs.
Christopher and I got the convoy going. The trucks were headed for New Orleans, disguised as hurricane relief supplies. FEMA was paying for the haul, I learned. Now the scheme looked profitable.
We missed Gustav so the trucks turned towards Savannah. Then late today, after reading the forecasts, we re-routed the truck to Miami hoping for a date with Ike.
What a week! Today’s buck went to a gallon-sized McLatte. Let me tell you, nobody should drink 80 ounces of McLatte. I won’t sleep for days. Now it’s back to the Pacific Coast for the VME poker run and (hopefully) some lovin’ with Hamsini.
I'll be back on the Isle of Vashon in search of Dalton.
Wednesday
Turnpike Dollar
Episode 10:
Today I spent my Charlie dollar at the Natick Plaza on the Massachusetts Turnpike.
Four quarters in the bathroom vending machine.
Not a false French Tickler made in Lumberton, NC.
Not a pouch of strawberry-scented personal lubricant.
Two Tylenol capsules for a midnight headache.
Driving towards Boston, ahead of the hurricanes.
Today I spent my Charlie dollar at the Natick Plaza on the Massachusetts Turnpike.
Four quarters in the bathroom vending machine.
Not a false French Tickler made in Lumberton, NC.
Not a pouch of strawberry-scented personal lubricant.
Two Tylenol capsules for a midnight headache.
Driving towards Boston, ahead of the hurricanes.
Tuesday
A Dollar for Jill
Episode 9:
The day starts early with a shared taxi ride to the airport. My accidental passenger is Jill who talks incessantly at 6:15 am. She is headed to a funeral in Dallas. She is chirpy and explains that her friend would have wanted it that way. No mourning allowed.
She is excited to see old friends. At 6:30 she is already talking about how the whiskey will flow. Her faced is pocked, heavy with foundation. She is generous with her personal history. Her family owns a chain of Sicilian pizza restaurants. She once bred Yorkshire terriers but the state suspended her license. She is unable to have children. She is allergic to wheat, diary, and egg yolks.
She speaks often of hurricanes. It is a busy week for hurricanes. Gustav, Hanna, Ike and Josephine. She tells me that she is a refugee from Katrina. She was airlifted from New Orleans to Seattle three years ago. She pops a red and white capsule.
Jill waves her hands a lot. The driver is watching her closely in the rear view mirror. She tells me that her flight from Seattle is not until 2 pm, but she could not sleep. She was scared that she would sleep through the alarm. I said, me too. My two words to her two thousand words.
There are vague references to an accident that required the total reconstruction of her face. I shrug in feigned sympathy. I am sorry that I am having trouble believing her. It just looks like bad teenage acne.
Halfway to the airport, she confesses that she is taking Dilantin. She is taking lithium, too, "to take the edge off." She tells us that the Dilantin makes her talk too much. She knows that she is annoying. She annoys herself, Jill says, with all her blither blather. Blither. Blather. She apologizes for jabbering.
She tells me that she lives in a yurt on Vashon Island. My ears perk up. It is a long shot, but I ask. Do you know Charlie Dalton?
Dalton? Oh yeah, he live in a trailer at the Eagles Lodge.
Suddenly, Jill turns an imaginary key that locks her lips. For the rest of the ride she is silent. I can tell it is really hard for her and she is concentrating. Steam seems to be rising from her. There is an odor.
At the end of the ride, I offer to pay the full fare. I’m working, I tell her. No worries. She surprises and thanks me with a sloppy kiss that smells darkly of cigarettes and Jim Beam.
The day starts early with a shared taxi ride to the airport. My accidental passenger is Jill who talks incessantly at 6:15 am. She is headed to a funeral in Dallas. She is chirpy and explains that her friend would have wanted it that way. No mourning allowed.
She is excited to see old friends. At 6:30 she is already talking about how the whiskey will flow. Her faced is pocked, heavy with foundation. She is generous with her personal history. Her family owns a chain of Sicilian pizza restaurants. She once bred Yorkshire terriers but the state suspended her license. She is unable to have children. She is allergic to wheat, diary, and egg yolks.
She speaks often of hurricanes. It is a busy week for hurricanes. Gustav, Hanna, Ike and Josephine. She tells me that she is a refugee from Katrina. She was airlifted from New Orleans to Seattle three years ago. She pops a red and white capsule.
Jill waves her hands a lot. The driver is watching her closely in the rear view mirror. She tells me that her flight from Seattle is not until 2 pm, but she could not sleep. She was scared that she would sleep through the alarm. I said, me too. My two words to her two thousand words.
There are vague references to an accident that required the total reconstruction of her face. I shrug in feigned sympathy. I am sorry that I am having trouble believing her. It just looks like bad teenage acne.
Halfway to the airport, she confesses that she is taking Dilantin. She is taking lithium, too, "to take the edge off." She tells us that the Dilantin makes her talk too much. She knows that she is annoying. She annoys herself, Jill says, with all her blither blather. Blither. Blather. She apologizes for jabbering.
She tells me that she lives in a yurt on Vashon Island. My ears perk up. It is a long shot, but I ask. Do you know Charlie Dalton?
Dalton? Oh yeah, he live in a trailer at the Eagles Lodge.
Suddenly, Jill turns an imaginary key that locks her lips. For the rest of the ride she is silent. I can tell it is really hard for her and she is concentrating. Steam seems to be rising from her. There is an odor.
At the end of the ride, I offer to pay the full fare. I’m working, I tell her. No worries. She surprises and thanks me with a sloppy kiss that smells darkly of cigarettes and Jim Beam.
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