Month: January 2022

Car Talk

First Published: 1 March, 2005

Angus isn’t feeling well today. Angus is my car and has been a member of the family for almost three years now. He came into the household not too long after we moved into the mountains when it became apparent that my little Nissan, despite having provided many miles of semi-trouble-free service wasn’t going to be able to handle my commute for very long. It’s around fifty miles each way and includes a vertical climb of over half a mile and that starting from one mile above sea level. I’d already spent many a happy evening standing by the side of the road while his radiator cooled down and this was only summer – a Colorado winter with a two-wheel drive didn’t hold much appeal.

So, the Nissan was sold to a high-school student who lives in the city and thinks it’s a Rolls Royce, the “Cars for Sale” ads were scoured and before long, we’d adopted a 1992 Toyota 4Runner and christened him Angus. I’m no fan of the SUV culture but Angus is small by today’s standards, gets a reasonable gas mileage and yet comes equipped with four-wheel drive, chunky tires and enough oomph to handle the Rocky Mountain foothills even in a winter blizzard. Like all old cars he has his foibles, but over the years I’ve come to know and love them. However, he’s racked up almost a quarter of a million miles in his lifetime (that’s 10 times round the world) and is of an age where he needs a little TLC every now and then.

If you’ve been reading the Gunsmoke Diaries for any length of time you’ll know that fixing things isn’t my strong point. My contribution to the business of car maintenance extends to putting the petrol in and cleaning them every once in a while. When they refuse to start, I empty the gum wrappers out of the ashtrays, remove the assorted debris from the floor and wipe the rear-view mirrors. If that doesn’t do the trick, I’m pretty much stuck. Several years ago, we invested in AAA membership and have never had cause to regret it. Tow the car to the shop. Have it fixed by someone who knows what they’re doing. Worry no more.

Two downsides to this system are a) the inordinate amounts of cash that has to change hands before I can have my car back and b) the hours of stomach clenching fear while waiting for the phone to ring. Just what’s wrong with it this time? It’s mid-afternoon as I write this, and I still haven’t heard. Having been the proud owner of a series of old cars, I’ve been going through this my entire adult life.

My very first motor was a Citroen Dyane, in multiple shades of red who went by the name of Wilf. The Dyane was a cousin of Citroen’s better known, but equally ugly 2CV. In case you’re wondering, 2CV comes from Deux Cheveaux as in two horsepower. Yes, you heard – two. And they must have been pretty tired old nags at that. The darn thing was so under powered that unless I got a decent run up, many hills defeated it completely. One rather steep ascent out of town could only be tackled in reverse. A tongue in cheek ad at the time claimed the Dyane was faster than a Ferrari. As indeed it was. Provided the Ferrari driver chose not to go above 68 mph.

However, for a seventeen-year-old it was a delightfully quirky car with all manner of bits and bobs one doesn’t see on modern automobiles. The gearshift was on the dash and rather than the H format with which we’re all familiar, had a more elaborate arrangement based on the number 4. The high beam switch was floor mounted and was operated by foot. Each seat, including the driver’s could easily be removed for impromptu picnics. And it came equipped with cruise control in the form of a coat hanger-like wire extending through the floor by which means the throttle could be locked open. Sadly, unlike today’s cruise control, a tap of the brakes did NOT release it – the wire had to be manually pushed back in. A fact I discovered milliseconds before rear-ending a truck.

Wilf had a canvas roof, which could be unclipped and rolled back just like a regular convertible. It was recommended the car not be in motion when unclipping the roof and with good reason as I discovered when casually releasing the clamp for the first time as I cruised down the motorway. In an instant the roof was hanging down the back of the car, completely obscuring the rear window which, as I had no side mirrors, was the only way of seeing what was behind me. Quite a thrill for someone only a couple of months beyond his driving test.

Britain has an abominable law called the Ministry of Transport Test or M.O.T., which in theory, is an annual road worthiness test to be performed by government approved repair shops on all cars over three years old. In practice it’s a license for unscrupulous grease monkeys to extort money from mechanically disadvantaged teenage boys. When I bought the car, it had already failed its M.O.T. once. “Here’s the three things it failed for.” said the seller. “I can either fix them or sell it to you as is for £50 less.” I chose the latter option and reviewing the faults, found that one was easy enough to fix, one was way too expensive to consider while as for the third – I never did find what the mechanic was complaining about. Neither did the shop that handled the retest. They didn’t mention item two either. But they did fail it for three completely different reasons that had inexplicably escaped the attention of the first guy.

Wilf finally died on the side of the road when his engine block literally split apart. Despite my annual insurance premiums being almost the same as I paid for the car, my coverage didn’t extend to damage to my own vehicle, just those of other people. Still, the scrap merchant gave me enough for a darn good wake in Wilf’s honour.

There have been many other cars over the years and for some, I have fonder memories than others. But I’ve loved them all in their ways. Cared for them, named them and polished them ’till I could see my face in the rust. But for now, Angus is my baby and like any concerned parent, I worry about him when he’s not well. Still, the good news is – at least I’m not trying to fix him myself.

Wardrobe Malfunction

First Published: 22 February, 2005

The Light of my Life™ bought me a new shirt the other day. At least it’s new to me; somebody else owned it previously. No complaints about that; a lot of my wardrobe comes from thrift stores including most of the stuff I really like. Even better, it saved me the trouble of going clothes shopping for myself, something which as far as I’m concerned, ranks right up there with drilling holes in my kneecaps and watching programs on the Lifetime Channel. It’s an all linen number which hangs beautifully, feels great and if I say so myself, makes me look something of a stud muffin.

One downside of thrift store clothing is that no matter how good it looks, you’re never entirely sure of its past history so I added it to the bag of other shirts and dropped it off at the dry cleaners for laundering. It was a small pile this week, so I got something of a shock on my return, when the bill came to over $17. Turned out the cleaners had followed the instructions on the label and rather than simply laundering it as I had asked, had dry cleaned and hand finished it. As this extra service came to almost $10, it made my $5 shirt a little less of a bargain.

But as I said, it does look good, so I simply resolved to be careful when and where I wore it. I always wear an undershirt so if I avoided smoky bars and sweaty environments, I should be able to squeeze two or three wearings between launderings. As I dressed to wear it for the first time, I jokingly said to The Light of my Life™, “What do suppose I’ll spill on it?” “Don’t say things like that,” she replied, “you’re only tempting fate.”

She was right, of course. It was tartar sauce. I great big dollop of it, right down the front.

This didn’t really come as a surprise. Clean clothes and I never seem to get along too well and in fact I’ve often speculated at the mysterious forces that cause food, drink and other messy substances to be inexorably attracted to my outerwear. When I lived in Britain, I wore a tie each day for work and for the longest time I thought the only purpose they served was to keep my shirts clean. When dressing for an important occasion, I often had to ask “Do you think soup stains or chili stains go better with this jacket?”

The bottom couple of inches were usually discoloured after my tie had fallen onto my plate as I sat down so over the years I developed the habit of pressing it to my torso until I was seated. Even though I haven’t worn a tie on any regular basis for several years, the habit is apparently still with me as I learned quite recently while eating lunch with a co-worker. In an interested tone he asked, “Why do you always pat your stomach when you sit down?”

My office in Phoenix was located across the street from an excellent Italian restaurant. Their specialty dish was chicken cooked in a red wine sauce which tasted absolutely divine even though it was a rather unnatural grape colour. I had lunch there one day and as I had a client presentation that afternoon, was impeccably dressed. Anxious to maintain the smart appearance of my snowy white shirt and crisp chinos, I made sure to use my napkin. I’m aware it’s not socially acceptable to tuck one’s napkin into the shirt collar so like a good little grown up; I had mine spread over my lap. Although I should have known what would happen, I ordered my usual chicken-in-purple-stuff and in a matter of moments; had dropped a piece.

Perhaps if I’d simply sat still, I might have got away with little more than a nasty stain or two where it landed. Instead, in my frantic attempts to get out of the way, I did a series of hip-hop style dance moves and as a result, managed to steer the chicken-in-toxic-sauce all the way across my chest, down one arm, over my (now napkin-less) crotch and the full length of one leg before it finally came to rest in the cuff of my pants. The waitress did her best to help but really, only made matters worse. There wasn’t enough time to go home and change so I made my presentation to the clients looking like an extra from a slasher flick. The sad thing was; nobody seemed overly surprised.

It hasn’t always been my fault. One time I was flying on a business trip. My fellow passengers and I were just settling down to the highlight of the flight, namely the plastic glass of soda and the bag of pretzels. I’d taken no more than a couple of sips when the lady next to me spilled her drink over my right leg. The flight attendant raced into action and using no more than a glass of club soda and a paper napkin, did a quite serviceable job of removing the stain while leaving the crease in my pants reasonably intact. My seat mate was mortified and full of apologies. No real harm was done, we had a joke about it and the flight attendant brought her another drink.

She reached for her fresh drink and as we both watched in horror, some malevolent force caused her to throw this one over my right leg too. Again, the flight attendant did her routine with the soda and napkin but this time, my pants were beyond salvation. My left leg was still sporting a fresh-from-the-dry-cleaners razor sharp crease while the right looked as though I’d been swimming. My business trip was a fly out in the morning, give a presentation, fly home in the evening kind of deal and for this reason, I travelled light – just my laptop and my notes, no change of clothes or anything. Still, at least I had an opening anecdote.

Coffee, ketchup, red wine, baked beans, anything that can leave a mess has at some time or other graced my apparel. The cleaner the clothes, the messier the stain – it’s just a fact of life. I’ve never been known as a close follower of the fashion world, but I keep hoping that one day I’ll turn on the news to see some anorexic model strutting down the runways of Paris or Milan wearing a white blouse with a big dollop of mustard on the front. When that trend finally arrives, I’ll definitely be ahead of the game.

The Natural

First published: 15 February, 2005

Although many of our neighbours own and ride horses, we’re currently an equine-free household. At least in terms of living, breathing animals. The house is full of books, photos and other artworks of an equestrian theme. This is The Light of my Life™’s passion rather than mine, and when we first met, she did in fact own a horse on which she competed in three-day events. Although I frequently tagged along to the stables it was more in the role of official photographer, dog minder and fetcher of things. But it’s not as if I’m completely inexperienced when it comes to horse riding. I have sat on several horses in my time, occasionally even while moving and on one occasion the term “natural” was used to describe my horsemanship. Although admittedly, not for very long.

Several years ago a group of us were making our way up the West Coast of New Zealand’s South Island and decided to try our hand at this horse-riding lark. So, bright and ugly one morning we found ourselves yawning and stretching outside a stable among some breathtakingly pretty farm country. There were eleven of us altogether and Wendy the stable owner spent some time matching us to various horses depending upon our respective sizes and levels of experience. Jonathon, at 6’7″ was assigned a 14-hand monster, while Helen, who barely reached his rib cage, was given something not much larger than a Shetland pony. I myself was paired with a gentle looking nag called Honey, which sounded just fine until I learned she had a penchant for rolling on her back in the middle of rivers. Hmm.

After bribing our way into the horses’ good books with a slice of bread away we went. One of the downsides of most trekking schools is that the horses are conditioned to simply follow the one in front. The clients tend to do little more than sit on the back and it can be rather dull. Not so with this group apparently, who each had day jobs and only did service for the tourists on weekends. All well and good, but I was secretly hoping mine didn’t become too independent.

As it turned out the first river crossing wasn’t too traumatic, and we made it across without mishap. The only snag so far was that my steed was becoming bored with my pedestrian pace and would occasionally break into a jog in order to catch the more experienced riders up ahead. I found that as long as we never went any faster than a canter, I was able to keep my balance quite easily and was really quite enjoying myself. That said, I was uncomfortably aware that Honey was paying very little attention to the signals I was attempting to send via rein and stirrup but was instead operating on her own agenda. We ran when Honey wanted to run, we stopped when Honey wanted to stop.

Knowing I was out of my depth, I solicited Wendy’s opinion. “Keep your elbows in. Shout ‘whoa!’ Pull on the reins like you mean it.” was her advice and I’m sure it was perfectly sound even though it had no effect whatsoever. There were a handful of occasions where I thought I was running the show, but I suspect this was simply indicative of my naivete. Still, we’d been going for some time, had crossed multiple rivers and cantered several times without mishap so my confidence was growing.

Even so, when the more experienced riders broke off and took a separate route to try some gallops, I elected to remain with the rookies, much to Honey’s disgust. She fancied herself a thoroughbred and was becoming visibly frustrated at my reluctance to open the throttle. Nonetheless, once the others were out of sight, she resigned herself to being a wimp transport and plodded along sedately without complaint. For oh, about twenty minutes.

That was the point when we rounded a corner of the trail and saw way, way off in the distance, the departed members of our group racing across a meadow. Tails up, manes flying, legs stretched out it was a picture of primal athleticism. And Honey decided she wanted to tag along. I kept my elbows in; I shouted “Whoa”, I hauled back on the reins, I swore incoherently. Nothing. Honey was going to join those other horses, she was going to join them as soon as possible and if I wanted to come along or not, that was up to me. It didn’t take long to realize my actions were not only futile but were actively increasing the likelihood of a fall. So, I leaned over Honey’s neck as I had seen the pros do and concentrated on maintaining my balance.

Then I saw the log.

A good 3-4 feet high, it lay completely across our path. There was no room to ride around it, even if I’d had the skill. Stopping was out of the question. We were going over it. 3-4 feet doesn’t sound that big if you’re only familiar with watching the professionals in the show ring. But it’s way higher than even many experienced horsemen would be expected to tackle. And I was no experienced horseman. I set my feet firmly in the stirrups, clutched the reins as if my life depended upon it (as perhaps it did) and gibbered helplessly as Honey set her feet, bunched her muscles and sailed out into the blue.

Horse and rider soared, as one, over the log and landed, safely, comfortably and beautifully on the far side. My compatriots were in raptures. “That was awesome”, they yelled, “You did that perfectly” and so on. Even Wendy gushed admiration. “You did everything right.” She told me, “Your posture, your balance, your technique. I couldn’t have taught you that. You’re a natural”.

I sat back and basked in the praise. Yep, Mr. Horseman that’s me. I was finally getting the recognition I was due. Maybe I had a future in the equine field. Me being a natural and all. Although I had to admit, my butt was getting a touch tender, so I sat up on the back of the saddle to massage the muscles a little. It was at that point one of the other horses leaned forward playfully and nipped Honey on the flanks. She shot forward, I stayed momentarily in place. Then I was sitting bewildered on the ground, wondering what had just happened as my companions dissolved in peals of laughter.

Oh yeah, I can clear a 4 foot log with perfect style, but fall off my horse when it’s standing still. That’s me. The natural.

Saturday Night at the Movies

First Published: 8 February, 2005

We went to see a movie last Saturday night. For those of you with active social lives, this probably doesn’t sound like such a big deal but for us, living over 30 miles from the nearest cinema, it was a special event. It’s not often I have much good to say about our time living in Phoenix, but as a film fan I did enjoy having several theatres all within a few minutes’ drive of our house. Nowadays, it must be a film we particularly want to see on the big screen before we can be bothered to traipse all the way down the hill.

I probably wouldn’t make a good movie critic for the simple fact that I enjoy almost every film I see in a theatre. The big screen, the quality sound system, the atmosphere, I love it. It’s only years later when I see the film for a second time on television that I realize how bad it actually was. As yet, I haven’t been able to persuade the bank manager to let me buy a big screen TV and while our little Sony has seen good service, as it approaches the end of its second decade, it’s not exactly state of the art. So, when I do get the chance to enjoy a new release in the format for which it was intended, it’s something of a treat.

Except when, as in this case, I get stuck behind a talker. The elderly lady a couple of rows in front was of the type who felt the need to give a running commentary on the action taking place on the screen. Admiration for the lead actor’s physique, gasps of horror when something unpleasant happened, admonitions when he did something immoral, sniffles during the sad moments, we got them all. I’m not usually shy about correcting inconsiderate behaviour from other movie-goers, but I suspect this old girl was simply oblivious to the irritation she was causing. I seemed to be the only person who was really bothered so I just let her ramble.

After all, it’s not like I’ve never been an inconsiderate movie-goer myself.

The Kendal Palladium, where I was first introduced to the magical world of celluloid, will never be remembered as one of the world’s great movie palaces. Located in a small northern England town and familiarly known as “The Pictures” it was an enormous barn of a place with a sweeping curved staircase leading to the upper tier, but even in the late sixties it was obviously well past its prime. The paint hung from the walls in long, ragged strips, the carpet was more bare than thread and the framed photos of yesteryear’s stars were faded to the point of being largely unrecognizable. (Even assuming these people had been recognizable in the first place.)

In those days, a trip to the pictures meant seeing two films, the first being an insight into the whale fishermen of the South Atlantic, or the reproductive life of the fruit fly, or something equally enthralling before the main feature finally arrived. Being prior to the age of video, movies used to circulate around the country’s theatres for years after their releases, so it was common to see the same film repeatedly. I saw “The Magnificent Seven” at least five or six times before I was mature enough to follow the plot. Not that we really cared. The film itself was secondary to the experience of sitting in the dark of this vast, cavernous hall, in seats of red plush pseudo-velvet and, safe from the prying eyes of parents and teachers, behaving like the little animals we were.

I’m not talking about picking fights or slashing seats or anything; the wild and crazy days of “Rock Around the Clock” and “The Blackboard Jungle” were well before my time. No, just the simple pleasures of shouting advice to the actors, chasing one another along the aisles, flinging candy and popcorn at the kids in front and for the truly daring, sneaking a furtive smoke. I was a candy flinger myself and over the years became something of an artist.

I was partial to jelly babies (something similar to Gummy Bears) which were just the right weight and size to cover the required distance while retaining enough velocity to make their presence felt upon contact. Smarties (kind of like M&Ms) when fired from the little wooden spoon that came with the tiny tubs of ice cream on sale in the foyer, also made excellent trajectories. However, my personal favourites were Maltesers, which were a confection rather like Malted Milk Balls. Those held an aero-dynamic quality which in the hands of an experienced marksman like myself; meant a bull’s eye almost every time.

Sometimes somebody would have a birthday, which meant that not only would their parents shell out for the admission fee, they might, on very rare occasions, divvy up enough for us to visit the promised land, the hallowed ground, the ultimate in movie going experience…the balcony! Fifteen rows of seats in a curving upper deck, the balcony afforded not only a better view of the screen (no cricked necks from up here) but also allowed the candy flingers among us to inflict hours of torment on the poor souls in the cheap seats with virtually no fear of retaliation. Heaven indeed.

Sadly, like so many other movie theatres in the mid-seventies, Kendal’s Palladium degenerated into a porn palace. Despite being carved up into two theatres, it was usual for both of them to be showing some soft core classic. Too old for the children’s’ matinees, too young for X rated features, my theatre going career went on hiatus. Like many others I embraced the video revolution, but unlike most, was more than a little sad when The Palladium finally closed its doors for good and ultimately, succumbed to the developer’s wrecking ball. There’s an apartment building there today.

Most of the movie watching world has upgraded to DVDs by now; I’m one of the few still using a VCR. People tell me Netflix, the online DVD rental service is the way to go and at some point, I’ll probably sign up. If we had a better quality TV I’m sure it would improve my movie watching experience but even with all today’s technology at my disposal, it will still never be quite the same as sitting in Kendal pictures, with my feet on the seat, talking back at the screen and flinging Maltesers at the folks in front.

Happy days.

The Five O’clock Toast

First published: 4 January, 2005

I forgot to have a drink at 5 O’clock this New Year’s Eve.

I had a drink at midnight and several before and plenty more after, finally wrapping up (I’m told) at about 4:30am. But I forgot to have one at 5 O’clock and thereby broke a tradition I’ve maintained for thirteen years. Why 5 O’clock? Well, because that’s midnight in Britain and even though I’m gradually losing touch with many of my friends from the old country, it still feels appropriate to raise a glass and see in the New-Year in with the folks back home.

The practice began when I was in Australia for New Year 1991 and was suggested by my pal Roy. He told me that if I arranged to have a drink in my hand at a given time, the gang back in Britain would make something of a ceremony out of having a drink with me across the miles. He considered, quite wisely, that they would be well liquored up by the time midnight came around and could easily forget so instead he pitched the idea for 9pm, when they’d still be functioning. Unfortunately, he made something of a miscalculation with the time zones and didn’t realize that this would be 5am where I was. I was willing to push down a beer at that time but had no desire to be awake. It was too late to tell him that, so instead I sank a beer with a nod to the old team, right on the stroke of midnight, Greenwich Mean Time.

By New Year 1992 I’d been in the US for about 3 months. I had the 5 O’clock drink but not until after I’d called my folks. This time it wasn’t simply to wish them a happy New Year, but to tell them they were soon to have a new daughter-in-law. The Light of my Life™ and I had decided upon marriage just a few hours before and as we’d only known each other for a few weeks before this, I was anticipating this might come as something of a shock to my dear old Mum. I took a deep breath, dialled the number and prepared to launch into my carefully rehearsed speech. She cut me short.

“Happy New Year. We’ll need to call you back as we’re off out to watch the fireworks.”

Yeah, OK. No biggie. I’ll wait. By the time midnight USA came around, we’d received the blessing of my family several times over. The Light of my Life™’s family was a slightly different matter. While I welcomed 1992 in with friends in the living room, my new fiancée spent our first New Year’s Eve, sitting on the bathroom floor with the phone pressed to her ear while my soon to be mother-in-law lectured her on what a mistake she was making.

The tradition of the 5 O’clock toast became even easier to follow when a “British” pub opened in Phoenix. This was a delightfully seedy bar which was about as far from a traditional British pub as it was possible to get. Manchester United scarves hanging from the rafters and a mug shot of the Queen on the wall do not a real pub make, but it did have British music on the juke box, Boddington’s Bitter behind the bar, and some excellent fish and chips. New Year’s Eve was a big old party but what was especially wonderful about this whole deal was that not only was it a convenient stop on the way home from work, you could have several drinks, see in the New Year in style, then go home for a couple of hours shut-eye before heading out to do it all again.

During our final few years in Arizona we went out into the desert with a group of friends and celebrated New Year around an enormous camp fire. People would save wood for the entire year just to burn when New Year’s Eve came around. One year somebody had a nine-drawer dresser which took hours to burn. Another time, a piano aficionado brought the shell of an upright along and that kept us toasty until the wee hours. We were in the desert for New Year 2000 and were all relieved to see the fire continue to burn as Y2K came and went.

The five O’clock toast tradition continued here as a couple others in the company were also Brits by birth. Of course, there’s seven hours to kill before midnight so somebody usually brought along an atlas. That way every hour we could find somewhere that people would be celebrating the midnight hour. Beer cans, wine bottles, paper cups and plastic glasses were raised to welcome in the year with our friends around the world. Way off in the distance, we could hear a party of good ol’ boys following the same ritual by loosing off their cannons into the night. Every hour, on the hour. Except in 2000 when they apparently used up all their ammo by 11pm. That or their guns didn’t work following Y2K.

For all my adherence to the 5 O’clock toast, it’s a curious fact that New Year’s in Britain, tended to be something of an anti-climax. Over there, the big celebration is on Christmas Eve and tends to continue right through Gift Grab day and well into the next week. By the time New Year came around, the liver, not to mention the pocketbook was usually pretty hammered and it was hard to get “up” for the occasion. Furthermore, a lot of the pubs tended to be infested by part time drinkers and tourists; people that would normally balk at having more than two drinks in one night but felt the need to impose themselves on the rest of us at this time. Many pubs imposed a “No Admittance After 11pm” rule, which meant one had to strategize to be in the best location by midnight. “Best” location in this instance being the bar with the most girls. I still shudder in horror at the memory of the year we mistimed our move and got trapped in a wine bar of all places. The horror, the horror.

We’ve celebrated New Year twice in Colorado; both times at a party in the mountains above Idaho Springs. There’s always lots to drink, lots to eat and some killer jelly shots which aren’t exactly drinking and aren’t exactly eating. This year’s shindig was a blast as always and the hangover lasted well into January. As far as I can recall, I acquitted myself well and had more to drink than I’ll need for quite a while.

But I still wish I’d had one more drink. At 5 O’clock.