When The USA celebrated America's 200th birthday in 1976, I will admit I did not pay the attention to it I am paying to its 250th birthday in 2026. 50 years created a different approach from me regarding one over the other.
In the summer of 1976, I was pounding the highways of the Eastern Seaboard moving people's furnishings and lives from one place to another. I worked hard that summer. I had little time to pay attention to any birthday. I was making money I had never made before. Call it my first capital improvement period. I do remember a heightened sense of nationwide excitement from the many flags I passed and the numerous depictions of fireworks that were found in every print ad and TV commercials at the time.
In 2026, I am hard into my decapitilization period. That is, I am not actively chasing the bucks, I am living off my previous efforts at chasing the bucks. They call it retirement. I certainly wish it had come first instead of work, but then I never had a silver spoon in my mouth or even contemplated one. I probably would not have liked that either.
Back then I could put in 16 hour days, go out and party til 4 in the morning and still make it to work by 8. It seemed I had no problem having fun and working hard at the same time. Today, a night out past midnight ruins me for a couple of days.
Being retired for this year's celebration has allowed me time to investigate different aspects, reasons, and other pertinent shit regarding our country's march into the future. My first burning question was what chunk of time exactly is 250 years in the counting of time. It seems there are several words / terms that are okay when labeling 250 years. The most popular by far is "Semiquincentennial".
(I just wrote that from memory without looking it up. I will now look it up to see if I got it right. Lots letters in that one......... and more...... DAMN! I nailed it. Picture me now doing a jig, or rather, a sad slow imitation of one.)
At least now, after writng and now reading it, I know how to pronounce it. Other than that, I hate the word because it is entirely too burdensome to write or speak out loud. "250 Year Celebration" works best for me.
So, I let the Hoopla and Flag Waving pass me by in 1976. My excuse is I was numb and dumb and way too busy making the first serious cash of my life. My excuse for this birthday, 50 years later, is I am not that enthusiastic about a national birthday that has been hijacked by a slimy clown who is using it for his own self agrandizement. Trump has taken any celebration I may have considerd and shit all over it with his "Everything is about Me, Me,Me.....Me".
So please understand if I refuse to fly a flag this year. Please understnad that until Trump and the movement he created out of his ass is defeated, I will not be celebrating anything that pretends to show America as a great country. I fear we have lost that battle; and if not Lost, we are in serious danger of losing it, should the movemnt he created continues after he is laid to rest in the closest swamp available.
There is still greatness in this country. But it is a greatness that is currently under attack by some of its own citizens. Why? That's the problem. I cannot for the life of me understand why they hate our country so much, that they would want to marginalize everyone outside their narrow-minded crew's view of the world. Talk about biting off one's nose to spite their face...... Geez.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .......................
( Post note - The two children in the top picture are my niece and nephew. I had yet to even consider marriage, children, or mortgages. )
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I sat on this post overnight. Not sure why. Maybe it was because it is so flippin hot. Maine is not supposed to be this hot. If I was a Republican, I would blame Biden or maybe Obama. But I am a card carrying Libtard who votes with Democrats at the moment. I say at the moment because the Democrats are really beginning to piss me off ..... again. I don't know what they are thinking sometimes. They have a president who is self destructing before our eyes and the Democrats are still pushing their often silly Woke policies over the bread and butter issues all of America wants to hear at the moment. Table the overly progressive crap for when you fools might again have the power to institute some of them.
Regardless, this section of a post for me is to inject a musical moment to hopefully offset any panty bunching commentary I may have inadvertantly used in the main body of said post. ........ Okay.
Small town America used to personify the heart of America. Those small towns, those fields of grain and pastures stuffed with cattle were symbols of America's wide expanses and also the open hearts Americans offered everyone who was here, who came here, who wanted to come here.
Today on the Eve of the 4th of July and the 250th birthday of the country I love, America is not the shiny love is in the air country it used to portray itself. Our citizens are at each other's throats. Our citizens have become two Americas; one group wants an America that is moving forward with all of us. The other group wants to return to a past that never existed then but exists large in their minds now. You know, the America that was controlled by White folks, peckerwoods like me.
I decided that John Mellencamp recorded two songs that encapsulate the mystery that is America. So today, we have a two-fer. Up first is "Small Town", an ode to the rural small town America the World learned to love from afar.
The second song, "Pink Houses", looks behind the "Life is beautiful" America and points to some of the ugly truths America has that also plaque, in varying degrees, every country on the planet.
It has become much easier and more predictable of me to have a chronic case of Opthoneurorectitis. For those you who have never heard of the condition:
Opthoneurorectitus is an inflamation of a nerve that runs from the eyeballs to the asshole; resulting in a shitty outlook on Life
Come on now, there is not really much in the news lately that lifts smiles and doesn't create frowns. The news offerings from the multitude of media machines around the the world seem focused on bad news first, any other news is accidental and comes in a very very distant second place.. It has always been the tendency of the many news outlets to concentratie on the sensational. Sensational and bad together can turn into a long term focal point of negativity. In a nutshell, that is what Trump's existence in our reality has done.
When it comes to what might be good turn of events under his leadership, well, I cannot see one major policy, executive order, or Royal dictate that ended up a plus for America. The only good that happens now is when Trump fails.
I long ago stopped even wondering and or hoping Trump would change his narcisstic criminal ways. I know longer want to debate anyone over the various failures of character Donald has used to enhance his position personally. He has never cared one iota about this country. His only concern is much more mercenary and self enriching for him. The whole world to him is a landscape populated by chumps just waiting for him to pick their pockets or any other resource he thinks that might make his pockets bulge or self image balloon in his own mind. I cannot think of any leader in history who has created a bigger legend in his own mind than Donald Trump.
With such an amoral scumbag like Trump having the world by the shorthairs, I think it's understandable to take on an opthoneurorectal view of the world around me. Tump works hard to create a shitty existence for those around him. He will literally throw anyone, loyalists and enemies alike under the first bus he finds when one of them displeases him. He demands loyalty, but fails to reciprocate in kind.There are absolutely no redeeming qualities in this swamp dwelling scum sucker of a President.
Hmm ............... I thought I would feel better firing off a rant of one kind or another. I was hoping to purge some of the recent Trump Stupidity pressure. Didn't work. .... Well maybe, just a tad.
Later Gators .....................................
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I have been busy multi-tasking. I forgot to even think about music until I typed the word on the screen.
The song I have today, "White Freightliner Blues" has always been a favorite song. I spent a lot of miles in a White Freightliner. The one on the left was my first one. I drove two other ones. Dependable and fast enough to get the job done.
If we were on a Crunch Time run, we'd often use visegrips to pinch off the fuel return lines. That forced more diesel fuel through the injectors. I could squeeze out on the flat, another 10 to 15 MPH out of that 290 Cummins. The only faster way was Okie Overdrive on the steepest and longest hill in the area. I only did that once. Once was more than enough.
It was a bit tricky getting that visegrip to have the right amount of squeeze. Too little and it was a useless exercise. Too much and damage to the injectors and other parts could result. The best way to hook it up was at night so I could monitor the glow of the exhaust as it came out of the stacks at a high RPM. A nice warm red glow not too high was perfect.
"White Freightliner Blues" was first recorded by Townes Van Zandt in 1973. It has been a favorite country song to cover by many bands. Please enjoy this collaboration cover by Molly Tuttle and Tommy Emmanuel. Awesome guitars. Both of them can really pick.
Just to juxtapose some, here is the original tune as recorded by Townes Van Zandt in 1973:
This was one of my early posts when I first created my blog. I had not read it in years; maybe not since the day I first posted it. Having re-read it now, I thought it might be worthy of a re-post with some trinkets and slight editing.
Here is "Random Scraps" from June 9th, 2006 - Including my immediate thoughts and some slight editing after the re-read.
Lunatics rule, the rest of us drool Lunatics run amok. Scattering the quiet and calm in every direction. They stand up and scream for the sake of the noise made. They attack our senses and rattle our souls. Hammering nonsense into directives and rules. They focus on the ridiculous and bend our wills to stupid endeavors. And all the while we are distracted by their manic gyrations, the real threats loom. Growing silently patiently waiting for their turn at the front.
20 years Later - Nothing seems to have changed ; at least not for the better anyway. The new lunatics have taken the reins now, promising us the same promises only in new packaging.
Okie Overdrive Dropping down out of the mountains, I shift into okie overdrive. 70,000 pounds of 18 wheeled momentum gathers steam and I grin as the speedometer creeps up to 90. I hold the wheel loosely, letting the truck find it's own way down the three lane wide super slab. The scenery picks up the pace as it zips by my window. But wait. Oh shit! Some curves ahead. Hugging the inside of the first turn, my hands tighten on the wheel as the truck begins an 18 wheel drift to the outside. A foot of space and a puny guardraill is all that pretends to protect me from a 200 hundred foot bummer of a plunge.
Just as I begin to think it is about time to revisit my past and make peace with my maker, the road curves back and I jam hard into it and ride it out. Easing on the brakes, I pass the bail outs at 80mph still barely in control. One more curve and another drift toward the abyss. Cannot brake now. Cannot engage the tranny, I hang on and hope those new radials live up to their rep. I touch the trailer brake. All I see in my mirrors is smoke and I have to let up. The road straightens some, so I try to find high gear. Grind the gears, double clutch, touch the brake, grind the ...finally the shifter hooks up. Whew!, I ease her down, shift down, and as the engine screams in pain I begin to slow down as the road flattens into the valley floor. Shaking, I pull over to the shoulder and stop. I check my britches. I also check off that stupid trick from my list of fun things to try.
No rose colored glasses here. I almost paid the highest price for being stupid on that night run from Las Vegas to Los Angeles back in 1977.
20 Years Later - Those stupid moments on I-15 driving south to Los Angeles often cross my mind. Whenever they do, I will shake my head and wonder who or what might have been looking out for me. ........... Which is why I don't discount the possibility of a higher intelligence having something to do with us and what we are doing to ourselves.
I just hate the faith based networks we set up to pay homage to that possible higher intelligence; which when I think about it, Hah! Higher Intelligence? If they exist at all, they should be called the "Lower" or "Not Much Intelligence Agency", given just how sadly Humanity is turning out. Somehow, we keep movin on in spite of ourselves.
The Blue Jay I wanted to kill that fucking Blue Jay. It pounced on that poor sparrow and began pecking it to death. I rushed to the rescue but pulled up short. My emotional knee jerk reaction turned to resignation at the brutality of the natural world. I chased the Jay away and peered down at that poor young sparrow. One wing obviously mangled and useless, it gazed at me from a bloodied eye socket. The eye now in the Jay's stomach I guessed. Nothing I could do. Let nature run its course. I turned and walked away. Looking back, I watched a crow that must have been hanging around, swoop in and take it. With a small taste of satisfaction, I grinned crookedly and thought, "Well, at least that damn Blue Jay didn't get it."
The rest of the day, the violent end of the sparrow popped into my thoughts. I was not sure why it affected me so. But the lesson of that food chain moment had made a point. A re-run of sorts on how the World really works. Life is never secure nor truly safe. Hazards exist and predators lurk.
20 Years Later - I still on occasion will remember in detail the dying sparrow with the empty eye socket; serves as a constant reminder of just how much of a crap shoot Life is.
Be Sociable and Kind........ But don't be Blind................. Later
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I should do this more often. Listen to the music before I have finished the post. Today, I walked back some years to a time that seems now an idyllic fantasy world I made up. I know we had problems, but now I wonder if those problems were just stepping stones on the ever rougher pathof stepping stones I have tred on to get to the here and now.
Perspective. Writng and specifically writing after taking trips down memory lanes are all about perspective. And what seems to affect perspective the most? The passing of time does.
So, moving on now, I should have done this more often was originally meant to be about listening to music without straining to find a tune that would fit for whatever arbitrary reason I originally had. Just listen to the music and one will strike the right key. ...... I'll know.
I punched up a mix list Youtube had created from the gajillion songs I have played in the last so many years on their platform. I stopped it when this Metallica / Megadeth & the WHO mashup tried to pass by. Here is "Eminence of Holy Wars & Creeping Death". Given the names of the bands involved, I shouldn't have to say it.......Play it as loud as you can stand and then punch it up a notch or two.
My love / hate relationship with Facebook continues. Today though, I am a happy Facebook follower. Tomorrow, who knows? I often find inspirations for my writing in the many swamps and coves of the FB world.
Yesterday, D, a fellow Facebook user, highlighted the novel, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert M Pirsig. It is a book he places on his top five favorite reading list. I have been following D off and on for years and I have noticed his 'Top Five" list seems to have more room than the title of the list would indicate. Regardless, when he puts a read on that list, I know it is one of his favorites.
The title jogged memories of my days as an over the road truck driver.
I spent many days and nights pounding the super slabs and wrestling with brain dead four wheelers. The moments of madness, mayhem and fun were broken up by long periods of mind numbing boredom. Often, days or weeks of continuous tedium would pass between the moments worth writing about and the moments no one remembers.
As it turns out now, there are more worthy moments to extract from the hole in my head I call my memory. Ever since I began writing tales from my past, it has become easier to remember the moments that were over shadowed by the first string memories.To beat back the boredom of the road, I packed a few books to take with me. Sometimes a Great Notion, by Ken Kesey, A Boy and His Dog, by Harlan Ellison, Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert Heinlein, and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance are ones that come to mind. There were more: just can't remember them. I would read them in lieu of the engrossing pleasure of watching my laundry wash and spin dry. I would often sit at the lunch counter in a Truck stop and read as I consumed the greasy fare that was my food source those many years. Waiting to unload, waiting on a broker to find a load for me ............. pretty much any dead time not driving, I would read.
When I was hauling Rock N Roll tours, I would often perform small favors for the roadies who traveled in more cramped circumstances than I did. I think it was the 2nd Kinks tour I was on that I agreed to provide a groupie a ride for her new roadie boyfriend who found her at one of the concerts. I had the room, he didn't. Not a problem.The Zen book was in the sleeper next to the bag I called my library. Having it in my sleeper helped me get laid I think. The groupie, whose name I forget now, picked the book up and mentioned how odd it was to find it in a Big Rig. I remember being a bit miffed. I responded that it was odd a groupie like her would even notice. Now that both of us had satisfied the other where we stood regarding our impressions of each other, that leg of the tour passed pretty much in silence. By the third gig she was in my truck, I was no longer hauling her for the roadie. They had broken up; not sure why. I didn't care.
She may not have wanted to hang with the roadie anymore, but she wanted to stay with the truck. I was okay with it. She was good company actually. Smart and funny. After a pleasantly awkward moment at a truck stop, I was hauling her around for me. That roadie was okay with it. That kind of shit happened all the time. I found it encouraging that there were chicks hanging back stage who were more than just their reputations, trading sex for access. I enjoyed our time together, but she and I both knew it was not to last. We had differing agendas. Once we hit Massachusetts, she split. Told me she had friends going to Boston College. It was time for a visit.
"Thanks for the ride...... Had a great time ........... see ya."
And so another memory comes to an end. And though this one is definitely a second stringer, I am happy I dredged it up. Digging deep for what I have been stashing in my head these past 73 years is part of my fight to remain lucid and aware until my bitter end.
Keep on keepin on .......................
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I had a song picked out for this post when I was half way into writing it. The lyric "Money for Nothing and Your Chicks for Free" repeated itself as I finished this post up. I thought about the trickle down effect of that line in the real time backstage activities. How many women, how many outrageous situations did we, who labored to make the stage magic happen, benefit from the cast offs and ignored treats that always loitered backstage. The fringe benefits and lifestyle I experienced while hauling Rock n Roll is not even close to the life I lived before or since.
Here is Dire Straits and their hit, "Money for Nothing".
I just changed my cover photo on my Facebook page to the image above. This interesting rendition of our US flag is located at the entrance of a junkyard on old Rte 16 in Rochester, New Hampshire. It has been there for several or more years at the least. I have passed it many, many times as it is on our route to our favorite grocery store about 40 minutes from our home here on Sam Page Road in Acton.
I know nothing of the statement the artist might be trying to make. That it turned up here in the Trump era, I could jump to all kinds of conclusions. But since I never saw a Trump sign within close proximity, I hesitate to conclude it is a voicing a vote of confidence for the Orange shit stain. But so what if it is. The ultimate meaning of any piece of art is in the eye of the beholder. What does it mean to them? What feelings, if any, does it dig up?
It has elicited many differing trains of thought for me over the years.
I really appreciate its ingenuity and artistic medium. It is majestic and grand and makes no apologies. And what a great use of something not many of us ever really think about. A junked car is an eyesore, something to be taken to ....... yeah, a junkyard. This sculpture; for it is indeed a sculpture; this sculpture has well over a thousand words tucked into every crinkle, dent and mangled fender.
The 100 plus year love affair with the automobile here in America has resulted in too many to count cars, trucks and other conveyances used in artistic expressions of all kinds. My favorite is one I watched grow during my years as an over the road trucker. Outside Amarillo, Texas in 1974, some artists bought a strip of land alongside I-40. They named it "Cadillac Ranch" and proceeded too plant Cadillacs, nose down, in the dirt. They inserted one a year for a total of the 10 years.
My first view, there were three in the ground. The last time I passed by there were 6 or 7. They stopped at 10 because the display was an homage to not only Cadillac, but to the Cadillacs that had sported fins. And though this display of junkers is my favorite, I am quickly being won over by the one I pass on the way to the grocery store.
I debated whether or not I should pass on what meanings I draw from the flag sculpture. I decided to not taint the message any one reading this might take from it.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................
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When I ran across this video, I knew I had to post it; never mind it's amateurish result. I was at this concert 2 days ago at the Left Bank venue in Laconia, New Hampshire with BA, and the kids. We had great seats and the sound system was excellent. Great time. But then any time with my kid and her Marine is fine with me.
Tedeski Trucks Band headlined with Whiskey Mires performing front band duties. Sadly this video does not cover the whole 10 to 15 minute version. So I am going to also offer the original "Spanish Moon" as performed by Little Feat back the 1970s. Little Feat was and still is maybe my favorite band of all time I never saw in concert. .... Oh well, I can still listen to their music and that is a lot to be thankful for.
"New Lee Highway Blues" is a blue grass song by David Bromberg. Recorded in the1970s, it is one of songs that made me a Bluegrass fan for life and a forever fan of David's. The song is about how tough living on the road while playing music gigs here, there, and everywhere. I did not appreciate the song for its lyrics until I too, went on tour driving Rock n Roll equipment from one end of this continent to the other.
Most of my job played out at night. Load out at the end of gig after midnight, drive hard and fast to the next gig to unload for a morning stage call. Grab some sleep, a few moments of fun maybe, and be back at the gig that night ready to back in the trailer and do it all over again, pounding another super slab hoping dawn comes sooner than later.
I have tried to calculate the number of gigs I hauled to, but I can't. They often just ran by in a blur while I tried to maintain control. More often than not, I needed the tour itinerary to remind where I was, where I was headed, and where I had been. It could be and often was, a mind numbing existence.
A lyric in the song succinctly sums up the grind that Touring was for me:
Nowhere to go from here but up or down the road
And nothing over there but the same goddamned town
Take home pay was pitiful, but the excitement more than made up for it. My highs and lows never again reached the intensity levels they often hit while driving for SHOWCO. The absolute joy of walking out onto a stage before the gig and looking at close to 100,000 Rock fans, then settling in behind a huge speaker stack, stage right, and hearing them roar when the Who make their entrance. Just fuckin awesome, just awesome.
The other side of the coin, being busted for cocaine and spending a week in jail. Never had I been lower than that night at the Fleetwood Mac concert in Michigan when those cop hands grabbed me, cuffed me and tossed me in the back of a squad car.
All in all, I prefer to remember the good times, but remembering the bad always reminds me the Road was a fickle bitch. I never knew what to expect. So I learned to expect it all and deal with it. The joys and pleasures of the Road along with the failures and pain keep my memories grounded in the real world, and keep my delusions of grandeur from getting out of hand.
Two plus years I did this. Two plus years I lived on truck stop food, Green room grub and the very occasional 4 or 5 star meal I would never forget. From the seedy and seamy truck stops to the penthouse high pockets lifestyle the rich Hip take for granted, I saw and experienced it all. But always, always the mind numbing experience reminded me, as I tried to locate the next hall, I might be a small cog in very big machine; without my kind, the show wouldn't go on.
Keep your Rubber Side Down and your Sunny Side Up ..............................
Led Zeppelin's 1977 North American Tour landed in San Diego a few days ahead of the scheduled June 19th show. Having made the run from Madison Square Garden in impressive time, the first two trucks took only a little over 51 hours to drive the 2770 plus miles. The other four trucks were all accounted for by the next day.
That left more than enough time for the truck drivers to find trouble if they were so inclined. The old saying "Idle Hands..." was never truer than during those couple of days before the San Diego show. The Devil got busy when we hit San Diego.
Usually tour schedules did not allow as much free time as the drivers enjoyed during the 1977 Zep tour. With an extra driver assigned to each truck combined with longer drive time allowances, the tour became a vacation compared to any other tour I had been on. Higher hotel bar charges resulted as bad ideas and troublemaking plans began forming in earnest. The tour from start to finish had seen madness unfold, some of it self inflicted, most it seemed at the behest of the "what can go wrong gods". San Diego was following the rhythm track laid down back in the beginning of the tour.
After that first night of non moving sleep, I was full of piss and vinegar the next morning and ready for some downtime with no trucks, no roadies, no drivers; just me, myself and I. As the day played itself out, I was glad I had detoured down that fork in the road I had in mind.
Most of the drivers decided on starting out "tourist mode". Cabs were called and small groups set off to various ports of call around the city. The crew I was with headed to the seedy, where all the sailors flocked, part of the Mission Bay district. All kinds of fun could be found at reasonable cut throat prices. Women, Tattoos, Tittie Bars, and Greasy Spoons all in one convenient location competing for the coins in our pockets.
By mid morning I was half in the bag from drinking 3 or 4 Bloody Mary's with breakfast. Our first stop after was Tattoo Alley. Some of us wanted to get tattoos. Others were just along for support. I had planned to support, but I left the parlor sporting a 3 inch caterpillar Huffing on a Hookah.
The image is not even a close approximation of the tattoo I walked out with. I had chosen a tattoo from the bargain list; one color and cheap. If memory serves, I might have paid as little as ten bucks for it. I had the guy etch the tat on my back so I wouldn't have to regret it in the morning. One of the drivers from Texas commented as we left the place, "I've seen better tattoos in Jail."
That was alright. I had succeeded in satisfying one of my early kid bucket wishes. I had lusted after tattoos since seeing the tats on the crusty old non-coms at the several Air Force Bases where I spent my early years. When they rolled up their sleeves, the tattoos let you know these were real men, manly men. I was determined to own at least one. It was Pirates and Veins in my teeth stuff Dude. Who wouldn't want a tattoo?
We began our aimless shuffling after leaving the tattoo parlor looking for that next adventure. Someone suggested renting motor scooters at a rental place down the street. I remember thinking this might not turn out well as I was halfway to shitfaced at that point. It was early afternoon, and having an accident on a scooter did not seem like a fun way to finish what was turning out to be a wonderful day. I opted out, called a cab and bailed as catcalls of , "You're a pussy, You have no balls" followed me into the cab..
The cab dropped me at the Mission Bay Hilton. Two young women approached me. The conversation may have gone like this:
"So, are you with the Zeppelin Tour?"
I would like to think my response was as cool as I felt in my SHOWCO Zep shirt and aviator sunglasses, but I probably mumbled something like:
"Uh, yeah. ....I drive a truck on the tour..... Why?"
One of the girls said:
"Well cowboy, we want to take you out."
Just like that, I found myself with a joint in my mouth and I was seated between the two of them in a beat up mid 1960s Chevy pickup with Kansas plates. On an 8-track player behind the seat, Zep's first album rocked us out as we headed north on Interstate 5 a ways before splitting off onto Hwy 101 south to head back towards Mission Bay and the hotel.
The women did all the talking. Denise was driving. Her side kick butt dancing at shotgun was named Ellie. They were from Topeka and they had time to kill. They figured they'd try to stay ahead of the West Coast leg of the tour. I was their first victim.
The rest of my day became a fantasy unforeseen. I never imagined a day like this would ever actually land in my existence. I was with good looking women my age who wanted to have a good time. I hoped I was up to it.
We drove south on Rte. 101 for awhile smoking the joint. At a stoplight, a kid in a straw hat was walking up and down the shoulder selling avocados by the dozen. Ellie waved a five dollar bill:
"Will this cover it?"
He smiled, took the five and handed her a bag with a dozen Avocados in it; then tried to give her some change.
"Keep it", and we sped off.
When we were back in the Mission Bay area, Denise pulled into a drive through liquor store.
"So, what goes with Avocados anyway."
Ellie spoke right up.
"Fish tacos and Tequila". She pointed across the highway to a food truck sporting a huge sign that informed all motorists this was the spot to find fish tacos.
I spoke up. "Never had fish tacos. They any good?"
Ellie said, "I haven't a clue. We're from Topeka ferchrisakes. Let's try them out."
Denise ordered a bottle of Cuervo Gold tequila. We crossed the highway and parked near the food truck. With our tacos, tequila and avocados, we set ourselves up on a picnic table nearby.
I don't know about most fish tacos, but the ones we set our teeth into that evening were awesome. The sauce they used on their tacos set off a gastronomical pleasure party in my mouth. I could tell the girls were in heaven also. I opened the bag of avocados, pulled out my pocket knife and opened one up.
A conversation began between myself and the women about whether Avocados tasted better than they looked up close and personal. It took some convincing, but Denise finally took a small piece from me and reluctantly put it in her mouth. Immediately her hand came back wiggling her fingers. She wanted more.
"Damn cowboy, these are great....... How come you know avocados but not fish tacos."
"My mom. Wherever we moved when I was a kid, she found a way to get avocados."
I think we were at "Dog Beach", a beach set up for the pooches to run, cavort, and be the loose dogs they were meant to be. There were certainly a lot people out with their mutts while we watched and consumed our fish tacos, avocados and shots of Cuervo Gold Tequila.
By the time we
had eaten the tacos and half of the avocados, the shots of tequila began to
have their way with us. The sun was setting. I wanted to lay down; I was
suddenly struck with a case of the whirlies. Too much alcohol, too much pot and
on top of a full stomach, well, I was going to be in trouble if I didn’t lay
down. So I did under the lone palm near the picnic table.
Denise and Ellie
followed me over fussing about my condition. Did I feel okay? Was I going to
puke or something? One of them left us for a moment and came back with two huge
blankets. They spread the blankets out and both of them plopped their butts down
all the while trying to entice me into joining them. Laying in the sand had to
be uncomfortable they reckoned. For my part, I was feeling no pain. All I could
think of was I needed to hold it together.
It took a few moments, but I recovered enough to join the girls on the blankets The sun was
still peeking over the horizon. Ellie handed me a shot and we all toasted being
in San Diego and being young and numb. There were no cares considered that
night. We were gloriously drunk and stoned. Life was never better. We sat on
those blankets and eventually passed out, sleeping the night away only to be awakened by the
beach raking guy the next morning.
The girls dropped me at the hotel. I told them they could pick up back stage passes later. They waved and Denise hollered, "We got your room number now. We'll be back later."
MEANWHILE
After I had bailed from the crew the day before, events got really out of hand. Apparently, the drivers decided it was a good idea to do some bar hopping with the scooters. I do not know how many bars they hit, but it was definitely more than one too many.
While I was sitting at a concrete picnic table with two good looking women, tossing back shots of tequila and watching the Sun disappear into the Pacific Ocean, the scooter crew were being corralled by the cops and hauled off to jail. They had cut a swath of minor damages and close calls throughout downtown San Diego, the area around Broadway in particular.
Their scooter mania cost them plenty. Thankfully, it was only folding money they had to pay. But it could have cost them so much more had they not been hooked up to the Zep Tour. The hit and run charges were dropped. Any DUI charges were overlooked. They hadn't really taken anything or anyone out with the scooters. Most the damage was of a side swipe careening damage. The powers that be just wanted the tour out of town with as little negative publicity as possible. The drivers involved had some costs, some fines for damages and such. They were all back at the hotel when I came in after my night of tequila and avocados. Some were even back in the hotel bar getting tuned up again for another loud night in San Diego.
I often think of that time in San Diego with the Zeppelin Tour. A magical night of drunken companionship kept me out of jail. I would run into the girls again up in Los Angeles. Our relationship changed dramatically then.
Later ...............................
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The morning after our night on the beach, Ellie, who was charged with taking care of the music, put on an 8-track with the Eagles 1973 album "Desperado". When "Tequila Sunrise" came on, the terrible voices of a very hung over trio belted out the tune. Damn, that was funny. I think I actually stayed in tune better than the two women did.
Google claims the distance from Madison Square Garden to the San Diego Sports arena in California is 2765 miles. My SHOWCO itinerary has it as 2770 miles . The last Zeppelin show in New York was June 14, 1977. We had four days to cover the distance. SHOWCO wanted no issues making stage calls on time. They flew in a co-driver for every truck.
My co-driver was named Jim. A very likable guy who could not back up a tractor trailer for shit. Of course he had only been sitting in that rig for a few days at that point. In forward mode, he was rock steady, shifted clean and didn't ride the clutch. What really impressed me though, Jim was not a Chatty Cathy nor a whiner. All the way across country he pulled his weight just fine. He was from Kansas City and he enjoyed sipping Codeine cold syrup when he wasn't driving and we were in a state where it was still legal to get it over the counter. He also turned me onto a nationwide network of dealers who sold go fast pills to truckers. He gave me a card with a phone number on it. All I had to do was call that number for a location (usually a truck stop) on my route where I could score some pills. That's about all I remember about Jim.
Two drivers in every truck meant we could legally drive 24/7 across the US; well... almost legally. It could also have been a casual drive at sight seeing speeds. Instead, one of the drivers puffed up his chest in NYC, threw down the gauntlet and loudly claimed in the hotel bar he was going to beat the rest of us to San Diego. This in our face test of our manhood would not go unchallenged. All of us were in. Each truck put up $50, winner take all.
One problem was the first truck to load out ( Band Equipment) would have an advantage of at least a couple of hours over the last truck to load out. Rather than try to work out something fair, it became an, "oh well, you lose dude...see ya later chump". I was hauling sound at 3rd or fourth in the pack.
Six trucks left Madison Square Garden dark thirty the morning of June 15, 1977. Other than one sighting, that was the last time I saw any of them until I hit the super slab outside the San Diego city limits. I saw one of our trucks heading the wrong way. I tried to reach them on the CB, but I got nothing back on either Channel 19 or the west coast Channel 17.
When we found the secure lot for the trucks and trailers, Jim and I were sure we had won. We were the first truck there. A cab dropped us off at the San Diego Hilton on Mission Bay Drive just over 51 hours after we had left New York City. Our average speed with fuel and food stops was just shy of 55 MPH. Yeah, all the way to the Hilton we were full of ourselves discussing what we were going to spend the wager money on. After all, depending on how quick we made the trip, we could count on some significant time off before the one night stand.
As we approached the Hilton, I noticed one of our rigs pulled over to the side of the road. It was Rick's truck. He had not gone to the secure lot first. I envisioned a heated discussion over drinks about whether he and his co-driver had cheated. My recollection of the initial wager was, the first truck to park at the secure lot, not the Hotel won. He knew San Diego did not allow big trucks to park on the streets in that part of town. There would be no fudgin,
Rick was gonna be bummin hard. As we passed by his rig, I noticed a yellow wheel lock clamped to a set of his drive wheels. The San Diego cops didn't waste any time.
When we hit the lobby, I immediately headed for the front desk. My co-driver Jim had other plans. Told me he was hitting the bar to decompress over a couple of alcoholic pops; he would catch up later. I set him straight right away. Drivers always checked in first before any personal time could commence. Too many times there were foul ups and our rooms did not exist or were not ready. It was always soon straightened out as SHOWCO definitely had serious pull in the Hospitality world. But we had to be there front and center to make sure they worked it out. SHOWCO spent buckets of money on traveling and any hotels that screwed up lost their business. The tours were planned months and oftentimes a year or more in advance. Pre-paid Cash deposits with no quibbling were sent in to ensure top of the line service.
Jim didn't like it, but he came with me to the front desk. We checked in, found our room, dumped our stuff and then I said, "Time for cocktails. Let's find Rick and give him shit for cheating." Rick had been with SHOWCO awhile and I knew his habits. He loved to hang out at the hotel bars or the closest one nearby and sip Vodka Tonics until the wee hours of the night. He would definitely be in the bar. He and his co-driver were there as expected.
I slapped Rick in the back of the head as we walked up.
"Bet's off. You cheated."
Rick turned. The look on his face told me the slap was going too far. When he saw me, his frown switched to a smile.
"We did not cheat", he insisted. "We have been here 30 minutes at least, right?' He looked to his co-driver for back up. The co-driver had a blank look on his face and a full drink in front of him. He didn't say anything.
Rick smiled and said:
"Oh don't mind Bill... I don't think he's used to driving straight through from New York. He drove the last leg. He should probably be sleeping, but I insisted he come with me so we could laugh at all you losers when you came in behind the winner.
Rick's grin widened:
"So where's the $50 bucks you owe us?"
" Like I said, you cheated. The winner was the first one to drop their rig at the secure lot. From what I can tell, your truck ain't at the lot and besides, it has a wheel lock clamped on to one set of the drivers."
Rick's smile went slack as he realized the headache he was about to have with the San Diego cops. They were not very tolerant of big trucks that did not follow their rules. My grin became a chuckle.
I continued, " But while you figure out how to bail out your truck, I'll sit back here in the hotel lounge and nurse a double Jack Black on the rocks." I worked up the best shit eating grin I could muster.
John got up awkwardly and staggered toward the exit. I thought he was already hammered and had been in the bar for awhile. As it turned out, he had only been at the bar long enough to order one drink and not finish it. His codriver ratted him out. His awkward exit was just him straightening out truck driver stiffness after a long run.
Two of the other trucks made it to town a few hours later, with the last two arriving the next day. Everyone agreed John had cheated and I agreed to not push the win. It wasn't about the money. It was about bragging rights and I decided to split the ownership with John. I didn't want to win on a technicality, although I had every right to do so.
End of Part One
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Led Zeppelin is considered by many to be the greatest Rock n Roll band of all time. I don't know about that. When I bought and listened to their first album in the summer of 1969, I was positive they were Rock Gods. Not even Eric Clapton or Hendrix could carry their water.
That initial infatuation calmed some and their place eventually settled near the top of my all time greatest playllist. There was and still is entirely too much great music in all genres floating around this planet to make claims of "Greatest", Best Ever", etc. They were great and that is all that matters to me.
To have had the privilege to drive for their tour is one of my great memories. That tour was chock full of madness.
One song on their self titled fantastic first album, "Led Zeppelin" sent shivers up my spine and still does every time I hear it. Please enjoy their cover of Muddy Waters' wonderful Blues tune, "You Shook Me".
If you can't or won't turn the volume up to WOW, shame on you.
One of, if not the most lucrative trucking gigs I had was as a Teamster driving for Lever Brothers (now Uni-Lever). In the 1970s, they were basically just a soap company at that time. Breeze detergent, Rinso, Wisk, Dove, Caress, Sunlight dish soap, and a bunch of other soap products.
I was hired at the Baltimore plant as part of a new transportation scheme using a Teamster local shop that was supposed to be a cheaper alternative than being forced to continue to use Chemical Worker Union drivers. We were new and not very popular on the dock at the Baltimore plant. The Chemical Workers tolerated us, but only because we were at least Union and not independents.
Up to this point in my driving career, I had only mingled with union workers as an independent driver. I usually got along fine with them, but some loading docks were populated by aggressive union assholes who sometimes purposefully made my job hard; the Philly and New Jersey docks were the worse.
So now I was a Teamster. At first, all I knew was, I was going to make significant coin and drive solid, well maintained lease equipment. I was hired on and put on the road as a solo act when the contract with the Teamsters insisted on a team driving set up. Problem was, the dispatcher at the Baltimore plant was having trouble finding drivers with the kind of over the road experience I had from my time driving Rock n Roll bands.
I spent the first 3 months driving the same runs as the two driver teams did.. I kept two sets of logs and successfully kept up with the 3 other teams. It was tiring, but it was an hourly rate, not a mileage pay rate. In that 3 months driving solo, I grossed close to $50K. The overtime money was insane. My dispatcher was going to continue with me driving solo, but a snitch from the Chemical Workers bitched to someone over his head. One week at the end of a round trip run to Los Angeles, I was told I would finally have a co-driver to share the driving with.
At first, the thought of losing all that over time made me grumpy. Once I wrapped my head around the idea that another driver would make my life easier, I was okay with it. I was told to come in for the next run a few hours early in order to meet my new co-driver.
His name was Joe I think. It doesn't matter if it was or not. I will call him Joe. Joe was several years older than I was and full of himself as most of us younger drivers were. But his experience was almost exclusively dedicated to hauling containers from Baltimore docks to docks in Philly or New jersey.
After the introduction, I told him to throw his gear in the side pod of the truck. He told me it wouldn't fit. I wondered about that when he returned to the rig with 4 suitcases for the 7-8 day run.
"What the Hell did you pack for this trip, everything from your dresser?"
I held up my one bag that was half the size of just one of his suitcases.
"I could live out of this bag forever bud. You need to cut some shit out. We ain't got room for your whole wardrobe. I'll give you one suitcase and that's it."
He looked at me. I thought he might start something. He was not happy about me telling him what to do. I probably should have quizzed him harder, but we needed to leave soon if we wanted to be on the road early enough to miss the serious Monday commutes in and around the Baltimore/ DC area.
It took Joe another 20 minutes to sort through his stuff and settle on what he thought he would need. He finally had only one bag. He shoved it in the side pod and we booted.
This run was not the usual straight shot to the Los Angeles plant and back. We ran some dry chemical up to the Fort Lee, New Jersey plant. Dropped the trailer and hooked up to an empty trailer and headed south to Kannapolis, NC to pick up towels meant for Breeze detergent boxes. From there we headed west.
Joe's first trip west made the usual mundane run more interesting for sure. The excitement he showed when we crossed the Mississippi made me remember my first crossing as a child in the back seat of a 1956 Pontiac. There is nothing quite like seeing the Mississippi River for the first time. Add in the St. Louis Arch and man, it makes an impression. The Arch is an amazing sight you can see from miles away.
The rest of the trip West was uneventful with the exception of a stop at the Big Texan Steakhouse in Amarillo, Texas. I thought Joe would like to see what a real steak meal looked like. He was not only amazed, he took the challenge of eating 72 ounces of steak and fixins in one hour or less. If he ate it all, he would not have to pay for the steak.
I knew better, having already taken the challenge several years earlier. Joe tried hard, but in the end, he fell more than a few ounces short. I thought I was going to have to hold him up to get him out of there. He was a suffering bastard through the rest of Texas, through New Mexico and well into Arizona. I decided to let him lay in the sleeper and I finished the drive to the City of the Angels.
When we finally got to Los Angeles early afternoon, I dropped the trailer and found the motel. I was really beat. I told Joe to cool his heels, we would pick up our return load in the morning. Said I was going to shower and hit the hay. Wake me up in the morning.
Two, maybe three hours later, the phone in the room starts ringing off the hook. Being almost comatose, it took me several seconds or more to wake up enough to answer the damn thing. I was not friendly.
"Hello, what, what the Hell do you want?"
"Mike, Uh I..... Well you see..."
I was very awake now. Hearing Joe's voice on the phone told me he was not in the room and probably nowhere near it. I sat up and started looking for my glasses. Seems I always felt I could hear better if I had them on. This time was no different. I groped on the nightstand, under the pillow, finally locating them on the top of my head where I had pushed them back before I passed out.
"Where are you?"
I climbed out of the bed and reached for the window curtain.
" Uh, well, I 'm in Long Beach."
"Hold on."
I opened the curtain and noticed there was no longer a fairly new Leaseway GMC cabover bob tail sitting in front of our door.
"And you took the tractor, didn't you?"
A long moment of silence followed. So I repeated myself.
"You took the truck didn't you?"
"Yeah, I did, but, .... but I can explain."
I kept my cool. I had learned from my time hauling Rockm Roll that staying calm was more important than the satisfaction of blowing my top.
"Go ahead, explain to me why, what, and where..... And do it quickly."
More silence and then, "Well, you see I ain't never been to California, Hell, I ain't never been West of the Mississippi. And since we had a layover, and since you were asleep, I figured there'd be no harm if I borrowed the tractor and did some sight seeing."
The silence switched sides as I contemplated what this might mean to me, to our run, to the Universe in general. Finally, I asked the dreaded question I had been avoiding to this point.
"Are the cops involved in this "sight seeing" trip of yours?"
"Well, yeah, but it's all okay, I'll pay the ticket out of my first paycheck."
"The ticket?"
"Uh yeah, I kinda got stuck on a beach in Long Beach. Uh Huntington Beach actually. Seems the beach I drove on was not a drive on beach. ........ I would have been fine and not been caught, but I got stuck in the sand."
"You got our 15,000 pound tractor stuck on a fucking beach?"
I was wide awake now.
"Uh yeah. but the cop , hey did you know the cops out here are real friendly, he only gave me a ticket for blocking the access lane and not the driving on the beach ticket. Says it will....."
I had stopped listening to Joe. As lead driver, I knew any blowback was heading my way, not his. Then something told me I was only getting part of the story.
"What are you not telling me? Are you still stuck?"
"Well, that's why I called. See, I don't know who to call out here other than you, so ......."
I remember sitting there on that tired mattress at the Days Inn and realizing that my job was probably over, no matter what I did to salvage the situation.
"Are you at a pay phone?"
"Yeah"
"Give me the number. I'll call Leaseway and let them handle it and get right back to you."
I was finally awake and up to speed and now fully engaged in my crisis handling mindset.
"Well, that's a problem too. There's folks here who want to use the phone."
"Okay, call me back in 1/2 hour. I need a shower and some time to talk with the Leaseway folks."
Joe was more than happy to get off the phone. His last words before he hung up were regarding how he could pass the time watching the naked people at the beach. I remember sitting there staring at the phone. Finally, that something he was not telling me came into focus. He had said he was at Huntington Beach, maybe the most famous nude beach in the USA.
As it turned out, my call to Leaseway solved the logistical problems of the trip. They arranged to have the tractor towed, and when it was determined that Joe had burned up the differential with sand, they put us in a brand new, never been driven, GMC COE (Cabover) for our return trip to B-more. I was never told how expensive this fuck-up was, but from my previous experience having crashed a lease truck on ice in Pennsylvania, I knew it was an expensive mistake.
The return trip from Los Angeles was a quiet trip. Joe and I settled on occasionally grunting at each other. He was fired as soon as we landed at the Leaseway lot in Baltimore.
I was dressed down hard for the fiasco I had no part in as dispatch determined that I should never had allowed my keys to leave my person. I sucked it up and kept my mouth shut.
Joe was not yet out of my life though. A month or so later when I got back from my weekly run, he was waiting for me at the Leaseway lot. He was shitfaced and angry. He began a tirade about how it was my fault he lost his job because I didn't have his back and the only Teamster gig he could get was as a yard rat moving trailers around. Because of me his family was suffering also, blah, blah, blah.
I had stopped listening. I was dead dog tired and all I wanted to do was sleep on a mattress that was not in constant motion. I told him to shut the fuck up, that what happened to him was his own fault and godammit, get out of my face.
Then he said, "What did you do with my gun?"
That stopped me cold. I turned around and stared at him. "What gun?"
"The gun I stashed under the mattress in the sleeper."
"You fuckin had a gun with you on that run to L-A."
"Well yeah, ya never know when you might need one."
I remember staring at him for the longest time. I was astounded. I didn't know where to start.
"You know hauling around a gun as a commercial carrier is a crime and a Teamster no-no. Besides, just how dangerous did you think the road was going to be? I have over 1 million gun free miles under my belt. The only situation I ever felt the need for defense, well, my tire thumper was more than adequate."
"Fuck you", Joe said, "I don't want to hear it. Do you have my gun or not? ... I stashed it under the mattress in the sleeper."
At this point I was heading to my car.
Over my shoulder, I said:
"I know nothing of your gun. It's probably still where you left it. But the tractor is locked up in the garage now. You'll have to wait until I come back for my next run tomorrow night. I'll find it and have it for you then."
I got in my car and left the lot.
Sunday evening when I showed up to grab my tractor to start my weekly run, Joe was there in his car waiting for me. He was out of his car and next to my car before I had even turned off the engine. As soon as I opened my door, his bullshit picked up right where it left off the day before.
"Did you find my gun?"
"No, haven't looked for it yet."
"Gimme a minute to check it out."
"Hey, I'll look for it."
Joe seemed in a hurry. I was not feeling very accommodating.
"You stay right here. You are not getting in my truck ever again."
I continued on to my rig, opened the door and climbed in. I found Joe's gun deep under the mattress. It was wrapped up tight in a paper bag. I hopped down from the truck, turned and gave Joe the bag.
Joe opened the bag, looked in, and then looked at me.
"What the fuck bud? What did you do to my gun?"
"What? ... I did nothing to your gun. You saw, I just found it."
"The rust guy, the rust. it's just a lump of rust."
"Calm down. It's the way I found it. Remember, you are the one who stuffed it under the mattress. The sleeper is a damp place, hiding the gun there was a bad idea. It's all on you asshole, not me. .... you're lucky I didn't throw it out. ............ Besides, the rust is superficial. Haven't you ever owned a firearm before? ..... It'll clean up just fine."
Then Joe opened his mouth one time too many. "Well, why didn't you clean it up then?"
I punched him in the mouth and walked away. If memory serves, that may have been the last time I hit a man.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .........................................
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Musical choices are probably many, but at the moment, I am drawing a blank. Something related to Trucking? Maybe Greatful Dead of Little feat? Nah. This story needs something different. Maybe some California music from back in the Day: Beach boys, Mamas and Papas, Sonny and Cher? .......... Hmm.
"Hotel California" by The Eagles fits I think. It certainly fits my mood and overall attitude about the Golden State. Here is a live version recorded at the Capitol Center in Largo, Maryland in 1977. I hauled more than a few tours to that venue.
Labor Day. .......... Why was it created and when? From a U.S. government website :"...... in 1882, Peter J. McGuire, general secretary of the Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners and a co-founder of the American Federation of Labor, suggested setting aside a day for a "general holiday for the laboring classes" to honor those "who from rude nature have delved and carved all the grandeur we behold."
".... to honor those who from rude nature have delved and carved all the grandeur we behold"
Hmm. Eloquent sentiment that describes what wage slaves do to meet the needs of the Rich to feed their ever growing silk lined pockets.
No one can argue with those words really. Ownership in and of itself creates nothing tangible, physical, nor edible. All ownership does is create the focus of the energies of a group to one specific goal; producing the physical needs and wants of the larger group they are all part of. And for that, ownership grants themselves the largest piece of the reward pie. Fair or not, that's how it works.
Don't get me wrong, I have no axe to grind with ownership in and of itself. The Capitalistic model works, but not very well without at least a modicum of oversight. Left to it's own devices, without any restraints, Capitalism is a no win proposition in the end for everyone, the owners included. They are just the last ones standing. Eventually the system will be replaced by one that is more often than not, more draconian and brutal.
I understand I am using broad strokes to attempt to describe the economic model we use in this country. It is not so straight forward as my first remarks might indicate. There are many influences, good and bad that can create or enhance the over all impact on the culture the economic system exists in.
The broad strokes though, in my opinion, fit into too many scenarios that have already played out many times in the past since Capitalism began its rise from the ashes of Feudalism during the Middle Ages. As a layman, former blue collar guy, and now, retired small business owner, I am thinking the failure of unrestrained free markets are as bad, if not worse than free markets operating under too many odious government restraints. The best results it seems, fall in the middle between the two, where Capitalism is the base system with a government that continues to rein in the worst excesses of the system. At the same time, The government does what it can to help maintain a healthy base economy.
A well managed forest will be more productive over the long term, than a forest cutover leaving nothing but stumps.
This weekend we celebrate the hard work of all the worker bees who built and continue to sustain the greatest Economy in the last century or so. A day only celebrating our workers isn't enough really. But like good worker bees, we take what we can get and go back to work on Tuesday.
My father once told me there is nobility in any type of work. Carrying one's own weight through the labor of their backs or minds is where the real pride comes from, as opposed to the false narrative that defines us through how much we own. As I said earlier, ownership produces not much by itself. Without a workforce, there would be no riches to own.
Enjoy the rest of your weekend and please -
Keep it 'tween the ditches .............
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I thought I would search for a good labor tune. As I began my search, I remembered my favorite song of all time. "Willin", by Little Feat exemplifies my attitude towards work, pushing envelopes, and holding on. For me, "Willin" describes the the can do attitude of American Labor. It definitely described my attitude during the days I drove trucks over the road.
When I played it again, I realized "Willin" didn't dovetail nicely with the sentiment of the post. I will include it anyway, just because, well, it is my favorite song, ever.
To be more in line with the idea, the struggles, and promises our labor force has been part of, here is the original version of "16 Tons" as written and recorded by Merle Travis in 1947.
As promised, here is "Willin", a song that carried and sustained me through my years of pounding the superslabs, dodgin 4-wheelers and Smokies. It was the perfect finish to a precarious youth. I ended up having too much fun and finally got caught being stupid.
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