My uncle and an aunt always drove new cars. He kept his old classic Cadillac in reserve–it was worth a million dollars in 1985 and he knew it (I hadn’t seen it since the 50s so ask me nuttin'; his son appears to be dead; his daughter is long out of contact and will not use the Internet; I do not know the last name of her son or daughter or even remember them, having met them exactly twice; as many of my generation it would be near impossible to phish me with a relative needing trouble unless it was from a troubled afterlife. I did–not to the point either–carry on a very long conversation with a Nigerian prince, however. I found it quite funny; I even got it to the point where he was ready to send actual money to prove his reality, but I got bored. As I recall I trashed the e-mail address. I wonder…
Back to new car tires. They generally suck. Initially, they tend to be of ‘okay’ quality. That means about a 6 out of 10 to use the most popular parlance. [*Parlance; essentially, a mini-language associated with a practice or discipline.] That means you just bought (say) your $50k Suburban (no, you say, they’re $15k more now; 2012) and they’ve put the cheapest radials on it that will do. They’ll get you out of the door and off the lot.
Listen carefully here. If you were truly going to be sane, you would drive immediately to a tire sales place and get new tires of the highest or at least higher quality, with about a minimum of 7.
Those tires are worn out, although they look fine. They performed less well last night than a set of studded tires bought at the same time would have–in fact the truck swapped ends. Mind you, locking rear ends are tricky but they sure as hell aren’t that tricky and I spent exactly two years driving as fast as I could (around 100 mph) on the worst roads on Whidbey Island, which is also exactly why they invited me to leave the state when I completed probation for some marijuana possession. I was fortunate. I should have spent my life in prison; in fact, that’s essentially what the District Attorney wanted. Vietnam vets weren’t popular either.
I bought actual new tires that were from new cars twice and regretted it. There are makes of cars that violate the rule to my certain knowledge; note that the tires are mentioned and they are NOT production cars. The real thing about the tires is that they tend to be fine for one year for me now. Well, I’ll take that back. They were okay for one year. I can’t say great, because there was no spectacular performance like there still is with the studded (even in rain, yeah). I remember last year that I noticed lessening performance (I once again tried to attribute it to whatever “imagination” is; I once again have found out that I obviously use it when writing but not apparently when judging things of this nature [okay, so I’m pedantic every once in a while; it’s either that or be clear as mud]) and it was really starting to concern me and I put on the studded tires and frankly basically forgot about it. I also had asked about the regular mud-and-snows being put back on now last year, so there was no point in asking now but the kid enthusiastically told me anyway “And your tires are simply fantastic!”
If I hadn’t deliberately over the course of about thirty years taken corners far too fast while not cutting them at all, and done things like brake at the wrong time… I drove too fast in high winds over high bridges. I drove West Beach at 70 mph in 70 mph winds (remember, this was in the mid-70s; it would be literally underwater now). I regularly drove a road that everyone drove at 70 mph when they were feeling gutsy…at 100 mph. Or faster. I could go on.
You’re thinking, “He was suicidal.”
I am a Vietnam veteran with PTSD. I fight it constantly. I also enjoyed the adrenalin; I just was never gutsy enough to go to Portland Speedway when you could do it and ask to try out.
Okay, so this is a warning from an actual seasoned driver who did stupid things intelligently. New car tires are not very good unless they’re part of the advertisement. When you feel like your tires are worn out, even though the tire salesman will actually tell you they aren’t–get the new tires. Avoid the accident.
This is a public service. I don’t even own stock in Les Schwab…
Mr. Spock, human by other name, citizen of the Universe, welcome to the final adventure–or, as most would have us believe, darkness. I agree with a naturalist sort of approach; you’re reborn or you pass on; I don’t know about the passing on bit, as I haven’t tried that yet. I wrote that poem once and I’ll write it as a short story, in a tribute to Mr. Lovecraft, as a tribute to a Loveland I knew…or not a tribute, precisely, but the nature of that has to remain private. I mean by ‘private’ precisely the opaque portion of Bilbo’s parting speech; he was one of the ones I knew not nearly as well as I should have and should have liked far more; the only thing I can say for myself is that I treated him kindly, and this was enough of a rarity that he nearly idolized me. Well, that and the thing I find I can’t talk about just now; I may never be able to mention it again. It trapped me into a job once and I recognize a feeling of being somehow stalked. The patternless leave the most distinctive pattern of all for those who actually discern or even perceive by patterns.
First of all, bear in mind that I’m taking massive doses of what used to be antidepressants. They’re commonly referred to as “first generation” because it was glaringly obvious that they didn’t work. What precisely has changed the view in someone’s mind is doubtlessly money, because the odds of them “working” is 50/50, or nothing. They do work at prompting thoughts of suicide, however.
Secondly, I first thought about suicide I think after I became a teenager. Before that I was just, well, very, very reckless. Starting when I was about five. At 6 one of my prime pleasures was climbing a 150 yard or so crumbling embankment of blasted shale, which, yes, was something that could have avalanched at any moment. Yes, I knew it. I was trapped on a ranch with my mother and someone who hated me and didn’t have one book to his name. Maybe I never knew how to fear.
Well, thirdly–I did fear (somewhat) trying to commit suicide. Especially since I’ve given it good tries more times than I care to count. A deliberate crash at about 70 in a motorcycle; I have a bent leg as a memento. Oh, and a scar beside my eye that evidently gives me a rakish look. The pirate, you know. The ‘overdose’ on PCP; as much as I could manage of a gram. I doubt I was trying to get high. Trips you don’t want to know about at insane speeds, perfectly sober (or not); the point being not getting there. Here I am. I survived a seizure while driving (and was accused of criminal mischief successfully). However, it was hard to do anything but make me pay the fine. I couldn’t drive, and they were oddly unwilling to make the absolutely necessary preparations for someone who was epileptic and who had to have special seating arrangements. Yes, medically backed up, with x-rays if need be. The overdose on seizure meds. There were some other ones, especially since they weren’t identified I shan’t detail them further.
I fear it because it never works. Even when it does.
No, I have no intention of trying again. The drug-injected images do float there, though. Knowing about them gives some power over them. But not that fear, the only fear I know.
You can’t get too many of them, and this is a nice, short article that is extremely well-written.
They’re fine. I was making sure about whether or not I was being phished (I was, but by a security company that technically doesn’t phish, it preys on the fears of the uninformed; I checked their reputation and then checked this site; I do not feel comfortable in naming the company that maintains security on WordPress; I will say I’ll just keep the free protection and do occasional scans; all comments ARE moderated=no easy phishing from here. Any scan I include will have been checked, although checking is also timely. Use UAC and if there is a prompt about installing something you didn’t ask for–deny it access, or run it in a sandbox if you can. If you used to go to porn sites (of any level that are illegitimate–Playboy and Hustler should be fine, for instance; a revenge site for people absolutely would not be in many senses) expect trouble. If you go to hacker sites and don’t use an isolated computer you’re an idiot, but I would say you’re an idiot in any case. You will encounter black hats and you will lose to some extent and it could be your freedom–forever. And don’t ever, ever go to the black site that was “fun” in the early 90s, the one with all the wares. You’ll be botted first.
If this was mostly mysterious to you, good for you. I don’t play those games and I have none of those conacts. And if you try to leave a comment, of course, with a link to something bad (half the time they’re work-at-home tagliners) the public won’t ever see it.
I can’t find Uncle Ward’s descendants, who would have wanted most of them. I doubt they know I exist. Danny is dead I’m positive–he was Ward’s son. I’d bet the same of Susan Orvis. She had children, of whom not a one was an Orvis and I don’t know the last names. Stephen Phillips deserves nothing, not even vilification. It would give him undeserved fame. My mother is dead, my father never knew anything of me; my adopted parents are dead.
The history is gone and the stories are gone. I feel there are those who will eventually come searching. There will be few photos of me, though I have written prolifically and there is much to be found on the Net. The Orvis family died on the practices of the man, Leo Orvis, who was a child molestor.
Janice, if you’re still alive, I wish you well; I wonder what your last name is.
Steve, if there is an afterlife–especially after all your justifications–may you be a boy, being endlessly raped. YOU BLAMED YOUR RAPE OF YOUR DAUGHTER ON HER.