Wednesday, September 30, 2009

WhiteHeart Wednesday

Link: [Tales of Wonder]



MP3 Audio Player From: [BlogDumps Video]

Gabriela
WhiteHeart

All those empty streets
I wandered down
Restless nights
And lonely dawns
Seems like forever I’ve looked for you
Now the dream that I’ve been waiting for is coming true
The dream is you

Gabriela
Angel of mercy
She comes to my night
On wings full of light
Gabriela
My love and my friend
Come take my hand
May the dance never end
Gabriela

Now I hear your voice
Sing inside of me
The missing song
I could never be
I see you through the mist of my grateful tears
Even in those lonely times when you’re not here
Your face appears
You are so near

Gabriela
Angel of mercy
She comes to my night
On wings full of light
Gabriela
My love and my friend
Come take my hand
May the dance never end

Gabriela
If we were born unto another time and place
Somehow my Lord would lead me to the love and grace
Of my Gabriela
Oh I love you Gabriella

Gabriela
Angel of mercy
She comes to my night
On wings full of light
Gabriela
My love and my friend
Come take my hand
May the dance never end
Gabriela

Link: [WhiteHeart]


Tuesday, September 29, 2009

TWO FOR TUESDAY {REDO}

Not every song that will be featured here will be what is generally considered as being “Christian” in the eyes of this world. For some will be anguished cries from the pit of despair, and others will be quite obviously ferverent rants of rebellion. Nonetheless, be assured that they will all be of our Heavenly Father (in one way or another) and I hope that you have been given ears to hear the message.


Blue
The Jayhawks

Where have all my friends gone
They’ve all disappeared
Turned around maybe one day
You’re all that was there
Stood by on believing
Stood by on my own
Always thought I was someone
Turned out I was wrong

And you
Brought my through
And you
Made me feel
So blue
Why don’t you stay behind
So blue
Why don’t you stop
And look at what’s goin’ down

If I had an old woman
She’d never sell me a lie
It’s hard to sing with someone
Who won’t sing with you
Give all of my mercy
Give all of my heart
Never thought that I’d miss you
That I’d miss you so much

And you
Brought my through
And you
Made me feel
So blue
Why don’t you stay behind
So blue
Why don’t you stop
And look at what’s goin’ down

All my life
Staying while
I’m waiting for
Staying while
Someone I could
Waiting around
Show the door
Not that I’m blue
But nothing seems to change
That I’m blue from now on
You come back that month

So blue
Why don’t you stay behind
So blue
Why don’t you
Why don’t you stay behind
So blue
Why don’t you
Why don’t you stay behind
So blue
Why don’t you stop
And look at what’s goin’ down

Waiting For The Son
The Jayhawks
I was waitin’ for the Son
Then I walked on home alone
What I didn’t know
Was He was waitin’ for
You to fall

So I never made amends
For the sake of no one else
For the simple reason
That He was waitin’ for
You to fall

It was not lost on me

It was not lost on me

Walkin’ on down the road
Lookin’ for a friendly handout
Somethin’ might ease my soul

So I kept my spirits high
Entertaining passers-by
Wrapped in my confusion
While He was waitin’ for
You to fall

It was not lost on me

It was not lost on me

Walkin’ on down the road
Lookin’ for a friendly handout
Somethin’ might ease my soul

It was not lost on me

It was not lost on me

Walkin’ on down the road
Walkin’ on down the road
Walkin’ on down the road
Walkin’ on down the road

Link: [The Jayhawks Fanpage]

Lyrics From: [elyrics.net]

Monday, September 28, 2009

Come Monday...Crash and Burn

“Come Monday…” is a weekly series that will involve a review of, or commentary about, websites, movies, documentaries, television shows, sports, music, and whatever else may tickle my fancy at the time. Be assured that these reviews will be generally positive, as in accordance to the Jimmy Buffett song “Come Monday.” This is subject to change, however. In fact, I would be most derelict in my duties to neglect going on a rant every once in a while. For rants promote change, and change can be good—right? Therefore, since good is generally considered as being a positive force in 99.3% of the parallel universes that I am aware of, even a rant could be considered as being something positive, and a genuine hissy-fit would be even better (so I’m told).

The following is another chapter from the rewrite of The Crackerhead Chronicles, which is an abbreviated account of my life so far. Hopefully, all will be back to normal (for me) soon.


The Seventeenth Crumb
(Crash and Burn)

The frantic pace that I was keeping started to really get to me after about a year of service, however. For there was only so much that my body could take while completely straight.

Nonetheless, the spirit was still willing. So, I had to do something.

Be assured that I really struggled with the dilemma. For I had never taken anything before, but after getting up from my usual rest period of 2-3 hours, I found myself absolutely exhausted in the parking lot of the fairly new Pilot Truckstop in Barstow, CA (around 140 miles northwest of Los Angeles) with a load of produce that needed to be driven straight through to Buffalo, which was still around 2,500 miles away.

Therefore, I went in search of some “help,” and I have to laugh every time I think about it. For everyone in that truckstop must have thought that I was trying to score an 8-ball (an eighth of an ounce) of crank (or something similar) by the way I was acting.

No, I was not after anything illegal. For what I was looking for was ephedrine, and it could be found in its very own display case on (or behind) the counter of almost every truckstop across the land, as well as in a great many convenience stores and gas stations.

I was still spooked by the whole idea, and it certainly did not do much to calm me down to see that its display case was empty. For by then, I was feeling like I did the first time I ever entered a liquor store and bought a fifth of Seagram's V.O. so that I could be (I thought) more like a man I highly respected in the Joplin, MO area back in 1979 (I think).

Anyway, I had become fairly good friends with one of the girls who worked at the Pilot, and she proved most helpful in my endeavor. For not only did she go in the back and find what I was looking for, she also cautioned me not to take more than two pills at a time if I did not want to get the jitters.

Even though I thought that it was very considerate of her to be concerned about my welfare, I knew my constitution. For I have always had to take more (sometimes much more) of the recommended dosage of everything from aspirin to prescribed medication to get any good out of the stuff.

So, I popped four of the little white pills with a cross pattern into my mouth and swallowed them down with a big gulp of Mountain Dew (straight out of an unrefrigerated 2 liter bottle that I kept alongside a gallon pee-jug in a duct tape-reinforced cardboard box between the seats), and then took off for glory. Much to my dismay, I did not even make it to Needles (around 140 miles east of Barstow on I-40) before I had to lie down and try to sleep some more.

Thankfully, I only slept a couple of hours, and what happened next was absolutely amazing. For I proceeded to ingest ten of the ephedrine pills that time, and about ten minutes later, it felt like every hair on my head was standing on end. Oily beads of sweat started to ooze out of my forehead next, and then I could feel my muscles swelling with strength and energy (not so unlike an inflatable doll blowing up). The icing on the cake was a tingling sensation throughout my body.

In other words, it felt like I had just taken a good hit of crank. Well, at least that was what I was thinking at the time. For I had heard others talk about experiencing similar things, but I had never been tempted to try it myself.

Be assured that nothing had changed. For I saw no benefit to upping the ante when I already felt better than I ever had before, and there was also, “Look ma. No jitters!”

It was, however, the beginning of a devoted relationship with the stuff. For without it, I was some kind of special, but with it, I became a super-trucker without any reservations.

A good example of that would be winning a bet with another driver. For he bet that he would have traveled more miles than I the next time we met. Nine days later, I won with 7,932 to his 6,497—and he really was on crank!

Another example makes the point even clearer. For it involved taking off from Rogers, AR with a load of Tyson's finest and delivering them to Denver, CO. After unloading in Denver, I picked up a pre-loaded trailer of boxed beef in Liberal, KS (southwestern corner of the state) and delivered that in Ontario, CA (around 60 miles east of Los Angeles). After making that delivery, I made eight pick-ups of produce from Chula Vista, CA (southern suburb of San Diego) to Salinas headed for Buffalo. After delivering in Buffalo, I loaded wine in Canandaigua, NY (around 90 miles east of Buffalo) and delivered it in Richmond, CA (around 15 miles north of Oakland). Then I picked up a load of almonds and cashew from another warehouse in Richmond and delivered it in Rochester, NY. The last round was picking up another load of wine in Canandaigua and delivering it to Richmond again—all without a wink of sleep.

No, I did not see where I could be doing any damage. For I was feeling better than I had ever felt in my life.

Sherry did, however. For she was a LPN (Licensed Practical Nurse) going to school to be an RN (Registered Nurse), and just reading the back of the ephedrine bottle freaked her out.

Yes, there was a price being paid. For aside from having to take more and more of the stuff in order to keep going, my personality was undergoing a major metamorphosis, and before long, a very disagreeable monster could be seen every time I looked in a mirror.

Not that it really mattered to me at the time. For I still had my dream of having lots of cattle to chase, and horses to fall off of while doing so, and I believed that I was doing all that I could to achieve it before getting too old to really enjoy that kind of life.

A lot sooner than later, my relationship with Sherry deteriorated to the point of being more like an uneasy truce between enemies than any sort of a happy marriage even during peaceful exchanges. For she was very unhappy with my state of mind, and getting a letter from an old girlfriend did little to improve the situation.

No, it was not a love letter. Well, not exactly. For it was sent to inform me of the birth of Calvin two years earlier.

Talk about being unexpected. For I had only been out with his mother a few times, but like they say, “It only takes once.”

It was still good to hear about having a son, and I got to meet him for the first time a couple of months later. For I got a load headed for Kent, WA (southern suburb of Seattle), and that left me only around 45 miles south of where they lived.

Oh yes, Calvin was most definitely my son. For he was as cute as could be, and could charm the socks off of a wino in a back alley.

He was a little on the small side, however, but he had a rough start. For Calvin had to come out at the end of the second trimester (24 weeks), and weighed only 18 ounces at birth. (Hmm, impatience. Surely another trait that he got from his old man.)

Yes, it can be said that Calvin was a miracle baby in the truest sense of the word, and I will be eternally grateful to the Children's Hospital in Little Rock, AR for giving an assist. For it was in their Intensive Care Nursery where he had to stay for the first six months (I think) of his life.

As it turned out, I had been through where they lived just five or six months earlier on a memorable run to Surrey, BC (eastern suburb of Vancouver, British Columbia). For it was the first time that I had ever been north of Seattle (not to mention the first time across the border into Canada).

There was also this Canadian Border Patrol Officer (I think) who was a stone cold fox (she looked a lot like Shania Twain to me). That is, at least I thought so until she promised to shoot me on the spot if she found anything that she considered disgusting in my sleeper while she was performing a random inspection, and since she did not shoot me, I suppose she really was an object to be desired.

Even after all of that, the second trip into the area was so much better. For I was plumb proud to be Calvin's poppa, and I hoped (for his sake) that he got a lot more of his momma's genes than mine.

Alas, again I found myself in a situation where there was nothing sweet about parting. For it was love at first sight, but I was in no position to spend much time with him.

Speaking of sight, Calvin certainly has a unique pair of eyes. Well, maybe only to me. For his has the same greenish hazel general color as mine, but where mine are encircled with a band of dark blue, his are encircled with a golden band, which makes them quite beautiful.

Anyway, it was time to hit the road again after a short visit, and I did so with renewed determination. For I had gained another to share my dream with.

Perhaps news of Calvin was the last straw (or at least one very near to the top). For it was only a month or two (I think) after I meet him that I lost Sherry and her daughter.

Oddly enough, I got the news when I called her from the cold storage where I was making my last pick-up of pears in Cashmere, WA (around 150 miles east of Seattle), and some might think that it was rather crudely delivered. For when I told Sherry that I would be headed home in less than an hour, she told me not to bother, but I knew where she was coming from.

Before moving on, I am compelled to explain that there is another reason for why I considered it kinda odd to be informed of the impending demise of our marriage while in Cashmere aside from it being fairly close (around 145 miles) to where Calvin lived. For it is in such a beautiful part of the country, but it was just ten miles or so up the road near Wenatchee where the transmission of my purple rocket-ship decided to quit a couple of years earlier, which caused me to almost miss having Christmas with Sherry and her family that year.

Yes, I did feel a sense of loss, but to be perfectly honest about it, it was more a sense of relief than anything else. For we had tried hard to make it work, but the divide between us had just grown too wide to span.

No, I was not the only one who was relieved. For Sherry's daughter had hated my guts with a passion since the first time she heard about me, and even talking her mother into letting her attend Space Camp in Huntsville, AL (something that she really, really, really, really wanted to do) did little to take the edge off of the scorn that she held for me.

Anyway, I was free to really spread my wings and fly, but when I unfurled them, a bunch of feathers fell out. For it seemed that taking over 50 ephedrine pills a day (over 1,250 mg) was doing a little damage after all, and then my purple rocket-ship got retired because of having too many miles.

So, I decided to try to do the right thing and go load up Theresa and Calvin and bring them back to live with me in the state of Misery (Missouri, according to Darrell Greenstreet). For he was my beloved son, and I figured that maybe putting a smile on my Heavenly Father’s face for a change might get Him back on my side.

No, I did not doubt that I would be spending all of eternity with Him. For I was, after all, a Southern Baptist, and I clung to once saved/always saved (the Doctrine of Eternal Assurance) with all of my might. However, I also recognized the fact that having my place in Heaven secured was one thing, and having His blessings while I still dwelt in this world was quite another.

No, it did not believe that my Heavenly Father was on my side at the time. Well, at least not to the extent that I wanted Him to be.

Of course, I should have been killed when I hit that full grown (and very pregnant) Black Angus cow (easily 800 pounds) broadside while going around 70 MPH just north of New Meadows, ID (around 120 miles north of Boise). As it turned-out, only the cow and the truck sustained any damage (deceased and partially deceased, respectively), but the way I looked at it, He would have made sure that there were not any cattle out on the road that moonless night if He was all the way on my side.

There is also the Wamsutter, WY (around 240 miles west of Laramie) white-out to consider. For after passing Exit 173 on I-80 while heading west to my first drop of AAA maps in Salt Lake City, UT, it looked like a great white curtain had been drawn across the road in front of me, and without having any prior warning, I plowed right into it doing 75 MPH.

No, I was not exercising some caution, for once. For I had got stuck in an old truck that was primarily used for shuttling trailers around the yard until my new rocket-ship (I hoped) arrived, and 75 MPH was as fast as it would go. (Remember when I was thrilled with a truck that could go 68 MPH?).

Needless to say, it did not take me long to drastically reduce my speed. For I could not see past the hood of my truck (let alone where I was on the highway).

As if that was not bad enough, I have always become quickly disoriented whenever encountering blowing snow at night—especially when it appears to be coming right at me. Sometimes it has gotten so bad that it felt like I had stopped moving or was going backwards, and that night was no exception.

Oh yeah, I wanted to stop really bad, and I was not the only one. For the radio was going nuts, and every once in a while someone would say that they really were stopping. Invariably, someone else would ask them where they were, and my favorite reply to that was, “If I knew where I was on the road, I wouldn’t be stopping, you #@$%in’ idiot!”

So, I kept on truckin' at a torrid pace of 15-20 MPH. For I was afraid of getting run over from behind to go any slower.

Thankfully, I caught a glimpse of a reflector every now and then, and I knew to scoot over to the left a bit every time I felt the trailer start to slide into the bar-ditch. For even in 4-wheel-drive (8-wheel-drive actually, with both differentials locked-in) most OTR trucks do not make very good snowplows.

In fact, it did not take me long to find out that there was something very different about the kind of trucks that I started driving after leaving cattle pastures and wheat fields far behind. Granted, I never found out just what that was, but the bottom line most definitely was that they generally do not do well at all off-pavement.

My first experience with such happened when I decided to do a U-turn after figuring out that I was going the wrong direction on US 54 late one evening around Iola, KS (around 30 miles southwest of Blue Mound). Hey, I could see that there wasn’t anyone coming in either direction for miles, and the bar-ditch was nice and wide, with a gentle slope. Therefore, it looked like it would be no problem, but as soon as my passenger-side drive tires left the pavement, I sunk down to the frame, which left me at a perfect 90 degree angle, with the trailer blocking both lanes. (Two cables on the wrecker snapped before pulling me out.)

Another experience was even more embarrassing to me. For it was actually two experiences. For on two different attempts to pull into the driveway that led to the loading dock of an asparagus ranch right on the Mexican border south of Yuma, AZ, I got stuck in less than a foot of sand. (The driver of the farm tractor that pulled me out both times had a good laugh both times.)

Getting back to the blizzard at hand, I was surprised to discover that I was not as isolated as I felt. For during one of my course adjustments, I caught sight of the headlights of a little white (of course) car just before my trailer got back in line.

It is a wonder that they did not follow my trailer into the bar-ditch. For there could not have been more than a foot of space between the front of their car and my trailer's safety bumper (a lowered bumper that is meant to help prevent small vehicles from running under trailers in the back.

Be assured that I knew how they felt. For I had sometimes tried to keep-up with Yellow Freight trucks that had to have had some sort of on-board radar system in order to maintain a 58 MPH pace during times when the fog in the San Joaquin Valley (central California) reduced visibility to less than 30 feet.

Sometimes it got even worse than that in the San Joaquin Valley. In fact, there was one time when I pulled over on the shoulder of CA 99 to see if I could recognize any landmarks outside of the truck, and I found myself sitting less than five feet from the Modesto exit that I was looking for.

Be assured that it was at least that bad that night in Wyoming, and I was never so happy to see Point of Rocks in my life when it finally came into view. For I could actually see it!

Much to my relief, Satan’s 41-mile sleigh ride came to a halt as abruptly as it started. For the cause of the massive white-out was high winds out of the north blowing snow across the road, and a fairly high bluff around Mile Marker 132 kept them at bay.

Before putting it to bed for a few hours, I traveled another 25 miles or so, and after finding a place to park at the Flying J Truckstop in Rock Springs, WY, which had to have been another miracle, I jumped out of the cab, kissed the ground and yelled, “THANK YOU!,” just as loud as I could. For I knew that extraordinary driving skills had absolutely nothing to do with getting through that swirling mess, and I was very grateful that He had seen fit to keep me out of the ditch (or worse).

Much to my chagrin (now), the operative word to the last part of that is was (even then). For before I laid my head down to sleep while parked at that Flying J, I started to fantasize about what it would be like to hook-up with a Mormon babe or two down there in Salt Lake later that day.

It literally boggles the mind, I know. For there I was, praising my Lord and Savior with all of my heart and then thinking about something like that mere minutes later.

Nonetheless, I could argue that it was not all my fault. For I used to wonder if there were any ugly girls in Utah.

Once, I even asked a gorgeous blonde waitress in a truckstop outside of Green River, UT (around 175 miles southeast of Salt Lake City) about how there could be so many drop-dead gorgeous women in the state. In reply, she told me that she had no idea what I was talking about, along with something about just moving there with her husband and their kids from Tulsa, OK after her husband getting a good job with a mining operation in the area.

I finally came to the conclusion there must be at least some somewhat less than lovely lasses somewhere in the state, but that they were probably only let out late at night in places where there were not any illuminating lights around. For the law of averages had to come into play at some point. On the other hand, mathematics never came easy to me.

Alas, my fantasy of finding a good Mormon girl to play slap and tickle for a little with never happened, and I suppose that was another blessing that I should have been more thankful for. For a girl being raised in such a repressive society would have probably eaten me alive after being let out of her gilded cage, but what a way to go (naturally-speaking, of course).

Perhaps not there, but I was starting to think seriously about going somewhere. For Jesse James Days really were over (at least for me) with the advent of the CDL (Commercial Driver's License).

Well, not completely. For I would still try to drive for days without sleep, and I would not balk at an opportunity to make some extra money by sneaking grossly overweight loads from here to there whenever I could get one. These included hauling over 60,000 pounds of loose potatoes from Monte Vista, CO (around 240 miles southwest of Denver) to Siloam Springs, AR (around 20 miles west of Springdale), and hauling a double load of rolled aluminum out of Oswego, NY (around 100 miles east of Buffalo) to Birmingham, AL.

It was on my first double load of aluminum that I got to follow in the footsteps of Daniel Boone through the Cumberland Gap while avoiding DOT weight stations on the main roads, and that was not the most “exciting” part of the trip. Suffice to say, I decided upon an alternative route after that adventure.

Looking back upon it all, I can see where having to give up my license to fly may have been a good thing to a certain extent. For before that happened, I actually passed an ambulance (with its red lights just a flashing away) while doing over 90 MPH on a two lane road in New Mexico with a load grossing over 110,000 pounds.

No, it was not the same after getting my wings clipped. For with a CDL, moving violation points would show up from all over, and that took a lot of the fun out of playing outlaw.

As if that was not enough, my super-trucker pills were falling down on the job, but I kept giving them chances to redeem themselves. For I would shovel more and more of them down my throat, more and more often, and even after throwing up mostly blood for a full six hours one night at a rest area near Echo, UT (around 35 miles southeast of Ogden) as a result of ingesting 100 pills in a span of two hours, I remained a loyal customer.

Yes, I had a problem, but not in the way that most would think. For there was not any physical addiction in play, but in all fairness, of what good news is that when you keep thinking that just a few more will do the trick.

To be honest about it, it may have not made any difference, but I would like to think that I would not have been so desperate if I could have been just like I was before. For I drove an awful lot of miles on nothing more than a bellyful of Mountain Dew or something similar, but when the pill bottle started letting me down, I was left without enough strength to stay out of bed for more than a couple of hours at a time—let alone enough to drive a thousand miles.

Remember the run I made from Salinas, CA to Wilkes-Barre, PA in 37.5 hours completely straight? Well, it took me over 110 hours, with the last 20 miles taking over four hours, to make that very same run after I started falling apart.

No, my disposition was not improving. For the farther I fell behind, the madder (in every sense of the word) I got, and that made for a very pleasant experience for Calvin and his mother, I’m sure.

Hey, I even have proof! For after stopping by the house one day in the very merry month of May in 1993, I discovered that they had packed up and left with the only vehicle still running, and just for good measure, Theresa had called the electric company (obviously before calling the telephone company) and had the meter removed.

So, after I completed the run that I was on and brought a load back to the yard, I told my boss that I needed to take some time off, which was not a problem. For he was suffering from my drastically reduced abilities almost as much as I was.

Finding a ride over to the house was also not a problem. For I just called an old drinking buddy of mine and asked him to come pick me up.

After spending a few hours catching up, he dropped me off, and there I sat in a darkened house, just watching the shadows rise and fall. By the way, have I failed to mention that I had been seeing “things” for quite some time by then?

Sunday, September 27, 2009

A Sunday Drive

Back during my childhood, our parents would often load up my brother and I after Sunday morning church services for a leisurely drive around where we lived. Even though we were seeing mostly familiar sights, it was still good to see them, and this is why “A Sunday Drive” sounded about right for the name of a weekly series revisiting familiar sites that are well worth seeing again and again.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Sites To See

This is the new version of FIVE FOR FRIDAY. As with the former, it is the SOLE purpose of this weekly series to call attention to sites that I think many would find most interesting—in one way or another. Please, go see for yourself.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

WhiteHeart Wednesday

Link: [Don’t Wait For The Movie]



MP3 Audio Player From: [BlogDumps Video]

Beat of a Different Drum
WhiteHeart

Jump

Jump

There’s a pulse that pounding
An air surrounding the streets
The beat
It’s a rushing wind
That flows within it’s the beat
The beat

Oh oh
Oh oh

Everywhere you turn
There are hearts that burn with the beat
The beat
And the movement grows
You can tell who knows the beat
The beat

Oh oh
Oh oh
Hear the beat

It is a timeless message of His love
Oh oh
Oh yeah
It’s the voice of the Holy One
Listen
Listen
The beat of a different drum

There’s a new day dawning
For those who belong to the beat
The beat
We’re not gonna hide
We’ll march with pride to the beat
The beat

Oh oh
Oh oh
Hear the beat

Oh oh
Oh oh
Move to the beat

It’s not the music that the band is playing
Hear the message that the Father’s saying
Listen to the heart of all creation
It’s beating out the song of our salvation

It’s a loser’s game
If you feel ashamed of the beat
The beat
His word is out
You can never doubt the beat
The beat
Don’t you feel the urge
The mighty surge of the beat
The beat
Hold the banner high
We will live and die for the beat
The beat

Oh oh
Oh oh
The beat

Oh oh
Oh oh
The beat of a different drum

Oh oh
The beat of a different drum

Oh oh
Oh oh
The beat of a different drum

Link: [WhiteHeart]

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

TWO FOR TUESDAY {REDO}


Not every song that will be featured here will be what is generally considered as being “Christian” in the eyes of this world. For some will be anguished cries from the pit of despair, and others will be quite obviously ferverent rants of rebellion. Nonetheless, be assured that they will all be of our Heavenly Father (in one way or another) and I hope that you have been given ears to hear the message.


Link: [On YouTube]

Peace of Mind
Boston

Now if you’re feelin’ kinda low
‘Bout the dues you’ve been payin’
Future’s comin’ much too slow
And you wanna run but somehow
You just keep on stayin’
Can’t decide on which way to go

Yeah
Yeah
Yeah

I understand ‘bout indecision
But I don’t care if I get behind
People livin’ in competition
All I want is to have my peace of mind

Yeah

Now you’re climbin’ to the top
Of the company ladder
Hope it doesn’t take too long
Can’tcha you see there’ll come a day
When it won’t matter
Come a day when you’ll be gone

Whoa

I understand ‘bout indecision
But I don’t care if I get behind
People livin’ in competition
All I want is to have my peace of mind

Take a look ahead

Take a look ahead

Yeah yeah
Yeah
Yeah

Now everybody’s got advice
They just keep on givin’
Doesn’t mean too much to me
Lots of people out to make-believe
They’re livin’
Can’t decide who they should be

Whoa

I understand ‘bout indecision
But I don’t care if I get behind
People livin’ in competition
All I want is to have my peace of mind

Take a look ahead

Take a look ahead

Look ahead


Link: [On YouTube]

Amanda
Boston

Babe
Tomorrow’s so far away
There’s somethin’
I just have to say
I don’t think I could hide
What I’m feelin’ inside
Another day
Knowin’ I love you

And I
I’m getting’ too close again
I don’t wanna
See it end
If I tell you tonight
Would you turn out the light
And walk away
Knowin’ I love you

I’m gonna take you by surprise
And make you realize
Amanda

I’m gonna tell you right away
I can’t wait another day
Amanda

I’m gonna say it like a man
And make you understand
Amanda

I love you

And
I feel like today’s the day
I’m lookin’
For the words to say
Do you wanna be free
Are you ready for me
To feel this way
I don’t wanna lose ya

So
It may be too soon I know
The feelin’
Takes so long to grow
If I tell you today
Will you turn me away
And let me go
I don’t wanna lose you

I’m gonna take you by surprise
And make you realize
Amanda

I’m gonna tell you right away
I can’t wait another day
Amanda

I’m gonna say it like a man
And make you understand
Amanda

Oh girl

You and I
I know that we can’t wait
And I swear
I swear it’ not a lie girl
Tomorrow may be too late

You
You and I girl
We can share a life together
It’s now or never
And tomorrow may be too late

And
Feelin’ the way I do
I don’t wanna wait
My whole life through
To say
I’m in love with you

Link: [Boston]

Lyrics From: [elyrics.net]

Monday, September 21, 2009

Come Monday...Chicken-Haulin'

“Come Monday…” is a weekly series that will involve a review of, or commentary about, websites, movies, documentaries, television shows, sports, music, and whatever else may tickle my fancy at the time. Be assured that these reviews will be generally positive, as in accordance to the Jimmy Buffett song “Come Monday.” This is subject to change, however. In fact, I would be most derelict in my duties to neglect going on a rant every once in a while. For rants promote change, and change can be good—right? Therefore, since good is generally considered as being a positive force in 99.3% of the parallel universes that I am aware of, even a rant could be considered as being something positive, and a genuine hissy-fit would be even better (so I’m told).

The following is another chapter from the rewrite of The Crackerhead Chronicles, which is an abbreviated account of my life so far. Hopefully, all will be back to normal (for me) soon.


The Sixteenth Crumb
(Chicken-Haulin’)

Now, if you really want to get technical about it, it can be argued that anyone who hauls chickens in any way, shape or form is a chicken-hauler, but I am here to tell you that anyone who would seek to make such an argument just doesn’t get it. For being a “chicken-hauler” is a state of mind—an attitude, if you will, and that takes precedent over whatever they may be hauling in their refer (refrigerated trailer).

In fact, it is a matter of legend that the North Carolina good ol’ boys who are credited with being the first to go down this road didn’t even have refers! For they hauled their loads of frozen fryers on flat-bed trailers, and they would have them delivered in California before all of the ice that they were packed-in melted.

Hard to believe? Well, you would do well not to. For that was an example of a typical truck-driver’s story.

Yes, a truck-driver’s story is quite similar to a fish story told by fishermen. For they are usually very entertaining—despite being generally recognized as being a figment of someone's imagination by those who know better, but it should be kept in mind that not all apparent fish stories truly are as such.

A good example of how that principle applies to a truck-driver’s story involves a run that was made from Salinas, CA (around 80 miles south of San Francisco) to Wilkes-Barre, PA (around 80 miles north of Harrisburg). For that is a run of around 2,900 miles (taking the southern route) that was made by a solo driver in exactly 37.5 hours, which was an average speed of just over 77 MPH.

Not bad for a 90 MPH truck—especially when all of the places where speed had to be significantly reduced are considered. For the southern route passes through Bakersfield, CA, Albuquerque, NM, Amarillo, TX, Oklahoma City, OK, Tulsa, OK, Springfield, MO, St. Louis, MO, Indianapolis, IN, Columbus, OH, Akron, OH, Youngstown, OH and Harrisburg, PA—not to mention that a very strict observance of the speed limit for the 500 total miles in California and 280 total miles in Ohio had to be maintained if you wanted to keep driving.

There is, however, a rest of this story that needs to be heard. For an owner/operator (someone who drives their own truck) made that very same run in 31 hours flat, which was an average speed of over 93.5 MPH!

Yes, the truck he was driving was much faster and more powerful than the company truck I was driving, but there is more to it than that. For it takes a lot of nerve to drive that fast that far, and it took some time before I was so conditioned.

No, I cannot blame anyone who was not out there on the road during those days for being quite skeptical. For it was a much different world back in 1990.

Yes, I suppose that it can be said that chicken-haulers had to go about their business with reckless abandon in order to maintain their status, but this is not to say that they were necessarily reckless. For it is hard to set land speed records with your truck lying belly-up in a bar-ditch out in the middle of nowhere.

The name of my new outfit was TLC out of Fenton, MO, which is a southern suburb of St. Louis, and I cannot remember just exactly what TLC stood for—if anything. Since Tommy Lange was the owner when I worked there, it makes sense the TLC might have stood for Tommy Lange’s Company or The Lange Company, but I cannot say for sure.

I actually met Tommy Lange once when he personally inspected a load of lettuce that I had brought out of Yuma, AZ and delivered to his section of the St. Louis Produce Market that was located a few blocks north of the Gateway Arch. He was pleasant enough, but he struck me as being a very serious man. So, I’m not sure if he would have seen the humor in many of his drivers telling people that TLC stood for Totally Lost and Confused.

Not that I would have admitted it to anyone at the time, but I did feel somewhat totally lost and confused when I first started with TLC. For I now had a refrigeration unit on the front of the trailer to attend to.

Be assured that “attend to” was an understatement—especially for someone with no experience with refrigeration units. For they did not always start when I wanted them to. Neither did they always stay running after I had finally gotten them going, and then there was a matter of maintaining the proper temperature and airflow for the product(s) being hauled that could be a nightmare at times.

Being one who does not always appreciate a challenge as much as they probably should, I was a nervous wreck from start to finish on almost every run in the beginning, and it got a lot worse before it got any better. For I was absolutely paralyzed with fear the first time I hauled a load of fresh strawberries because of them being one of the most perishable items to transport there is.

Trust me, I would have been more comfortable with a full load of unstable dynamite. For at least I would not have had to face the music for a rejected load if things did not go well with that.

No, just getting a load to its destination on time was not all that a driver had to deal with. For the load must also arrive in good condition, and that could vary greatly from place to place—even when delivering the same product to the same vendor in different locations.

A good example of that would be a load of potatoes (in 10 pound bags) from Colorado headed to five different warehouses of the company that had ordered them. For two of the drops were received without any trouble, but there was a lot of drama played out at the other three.

No, there was nothing different about the condition of the product. In fact, two of the troublesome locations were sandwiched between the two good ones!

Ice cream was another product that chilled my spine. For it starts to melt at around zero degrees Fahrenheit.

It is, however, a load of ice cream from Indianapolis that I consider to be one of my most memorable. For it involved ten drops on military installations—starting with Ft. Knox in Kentucky and ending with Andrews Air Force Base in California.

One of the in-between drops was at The Presidio, which I found to be particularly interesting. For it is located in the northern part of San Francisco, CA at the southern end of the Golden Gate Bridge, and much of it looked more like just another part of the city than a U.S. Army base to me. Sadly, what view I may have had of both the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz was obscured by fog.

Ft. Knox and Andrews AFB also proved rather interesting to me. For with both of them being such high-profile facilities, I kinda expected to have weapons trained on me at their front gates until my paperwork could be confirmed, but the guards at both bases were more concerned about why I stopped before entering than anything else.

Yes, I could understand why they got so upset if I had of been blocking traffic, but I pulled off to the side. The Air Force boys were civil about it, at least.

In time, it did get easier on me, and I got to where I even welcomed challenging loads. For with each successful run, the legend of the Goat-Roper was enhanced (even if only in my own mind).

Yes, I grew to think very highly of myself, and this had a great deal of influence upon my decision to seek greener pastures when TLC changed their policies. For what self-respecting chicken-hauler would stand for having to drive a 68 MPH truck under strictly-enforced log book regulations?

Now, in all fairness, it was not all their fault. For it was a high-speed road race between a white Cadillac (with the vice-president of their insurance carrier at the wheel) and one of their trucks (NOT ME!!!) that was the reason for governing-down their trucks so much.

Furthermore, it was getting blind-sided by a surprise DOT audit that sealed the fate of such lucrative runs as the Hershey Turnaround. For the run consisted of picking-up a load of Hershey products from their plant in either Mechanicsville, PA (around 10 miles northeast of Carlisle) or Stuarts Draft, VA (around 100 miles southwest of Washington, D.C.) to either the TAB Warehouse in Fontana, CA (around 70 miles east of Los Angeles) or Modesto, CA (around 70 miles south of Sacramento) and re-loading at the same location going right back to either Mechanicsville or Stuarts Draft just as fast as one could go, and there were just too many of them on their books to justify.

Yes, I made several of those runs. In fact, I became a favorite of Hershey's. For I could consistently make 3 complete turnarounds in a 2 week period. Hence, the stuff of legend.

Speaking of legend, I suppose I should explain what a goat-roper is. For I am quite sure that it is not common knowledge. For if it was, I would not have had to explain to so many people over the radio (and sometimes in person) that a goat-roper is a cowboy who has to rope goats in order to have sex with something other than himself because of being too ugly to attract a girl.

Yes, my CB handle (name or moniker) was certainly an attention-getter, and invariably the question would come up about why I would prefer goats over sheep. To that I would matter-of-factly reply, “Because goats are kinkier.”

A variation of the Hershey Turnaround was what I referred to as being the Half-Hershey. For it would involve hauling a load of candy out to one of their California warehouses, but the back-haul would be a load of produce going back to usually the Safeway Distribution Center in Landover, MD, which is a northern suburb of Washington, D.C.

Since most of the backhauls involved only one or two pick-ups fairly close to either Fontana or Modesto, one could usually make out almost as well on a Half-Hersey, but there were times when things would get out of hand. For unlike most companies, TLC paid their drivers per trip, which was based upon what zones a load came out of and went to—not miles. If I remember right, a load coming out of the western zone (California, Oregon and Washington) going to either Landover, Mechanicsville or Stuarts Draft (all part of the eastern zone) paid $500.00, which was not bad at all, but deadhead miles were generally not taken into account.

Things getting out of hand (as in regards to not getting paid for deadhead miles) happened to me twice after emptying out in Vacaville, CA. The first time I was deadheaded over 800 miles to pick up a load of apples around Yakima, WA, and the second time I was deadheaded almost 700 miles to pick up that load of lettuce out of Yuma, AZ that Mr. Lange personally inspected when I got it to St. Louis.

Thankfully, I was able to talk my dispatcher into getting me an extra hundred dollars on both of those runs. Of course, that worked out to just 12.5 and a little over 14 cents per mile respectively, but it was certainly better than nothing.

It was coming towards fall in 1990 when I placed my bid to rise even farther above the mundane and make my mom happy at the same time. For one of the most infamous of all of the Missouri outlaw trucking companies to have ever existed was located just up the road from Cassville.

Of course, it was going to have to be one of those, it’s the thought that counts, sort of things. For with me being out on the road so much, where I was being based out of didn’t matter a whole lot. Nonetheless, my mom was still thrilled.

Such was not the case with Sherry, however. That is, at least not at first. For she had lived her entire life in and around Columbia, and she was VERY reluctant to move a couple of hundred miles away.

Her objections eased a bit when she started seeing the paychecks that I was bringing home, however, and it was not long before we were able to put money down on nice little place near Bethlehem, MO (around 20 miles west of Cassville), which she was excited about. For she thought that it had a lot of potential, and to sweeten the deal for her, she found a job doing home health nursing in the area, which was something that she liked to do.

Just to be clear, it was not what they hauled that my new outfit was considered an outlaw trucking company. It was the way they wanted the freight hauled that was most definitely a different story, however.

Sorry, this is another company that I would rather not disclose the name of. For I fairly sure that they are still in business, and I have heard that they have worked really hard at changing their ways.

I can tell you that they were a relatively small company—especially in comparison to the first trucking company that I went to work for. For they usually ran less than 50 trucks at a time while the first one ran hundreds.

Nonetheless, there was nothing small about their aspirations. For they ran some of the fastest and most powerful trucks around, and it took much more than a mere mortal to keep up with their expected pace.

Greener pastures? Oh my, I believed that I had found chicken-haulers heaven. For it was not long before they put me in a truck that I called my purple rocket-ship, and thus began the most fun that I ever had out there on the open road.

Oh yes, my purple rocket-ship was most definitely a force to be reckoned with. For I could start at the bottom of Cabbage Patch (a mountain just east of Pendleton, OR on I-84 that is very steep on the Pendleton side) going just 55 MPH because of there almost always being a lot of Oregon bears around (and I’m not talking about the furry kind, neither!) with a full legal load (the combined weight of truck, trailer, and load totaling 80,000 pounds) and still be going at least 35 MPH at the top.

In fact, I once did that while weighing over 84,000 pounds—according to the scale house just west of La Grande, OR! All that saved me from being in really big trouble was still having the inaccurate scale ticket from the place where I picked up my load of “Oregon” bing cherries near The Dalles, OR.

So? Well, in a typical company truck at the time, 20 MPH at the top would have been the best that could be hoped for under the same conditions, but that would not have been the end of the misery. For on grades where my purple rocket-ship would not pull down a bit, a typical company truck would lose several miles-per-hour, which adds up by the end of the day.

Hence, the importance of having speed AND power. For going over 100 MPH is not that much of an advantage if it cannot be maintained, and draggin’ fly trucks would generally spend an awful lot of time on the side of the road at the bottom of hills with a highway patrol cruiser or two behind them. For a draggin’ fly truck needs to fly down hills in order to make-up for all of the speed that they lose draggin’ up the other side, and it is at the bottom of hills where state troopers like to hang out.

Suffice to say, I did not have to take such chances, but this is not to say that I was out there taking it easy. For the chief mechanic of the outfit told me that my purple rocket-ship was set-up to go up to 126 MPH, and all doubts about the veracity of his claim were quickly proven to be unfounded.

No, I never saw such a reading on the speedometer. For 85 MPH was as high as it would go, but I have seen the needle up against the peg at around 2100 RPM (if I remember right) in thirteenth gear.

Yes, those who know a thing or two about big rigs back in that day should be scratching their heads about now. For it was fairly common-place to set up a four and a quarter Cat (425 horsepower 3406B Caterpillar engine) to turn 2100 RPM, and a thirteen-speed transmission could be found in many a truck.

Subsequently, all we would be talking about here would be that the truck had an under-power top-end of around 85 MPH if that was all there was to it. It was not—be assured. For my purple rocket-ship was pumped-up to turn 2650 RPM, and I still had two more gears to go.

Furthermore, fifteenth gear was turned-around. For in a normal H shifting pattern, the progression of gears would be top-left for twelfth to bottom-left for thirteenth to top-right for fourteenth to bottom-right for fifteenth. Whereas, the shifting pattern on this transmission was top-left for twelfth to bottom-left for thirteenth to bottom-right for fourteenth to top-right for fifteenth, which made it into an overdrive gear and gave an entirely different meaning to having it (the gearshift) up against the dash.

Obviously, I also never saw a reading of 126 MPH on a radar gun, neither. For I am still alive, and I am not writing this from the incarcerated side of prison walls.

On the other hand, with a friend of mine who drove another company truck for the same outfit running the front-door (running ahead of me), I made a run clear across Pennsylvania one night in three hours flat. Considering the fact that this is a stretch of around 350 miles via I-84, I-81 and I-80, I think we made pretty good time (just under 117 MPH for an average).

I must admit, however, that he could have made even better time. For his truck was even faster and more powerful than mine (just how much so was classified), and he had to wait on me to catch up several times along the way.

No, I cannot remember if it was a full moon that night in Pennsylvania, but such was the case on another night on another part of I-80. For I can remember looking out at the expanse that lay before me when I topped the summit of the fairly small mountain just west of Wendover, NV (around 120 miles west of Salt Lake City, UT), and it appeared that I was the only one on the road for miles.

So, I decided to keep the pedal to the metal and the gearshift up against the dash, and I wound up scaring myself pretty good before I got halfway down the five mile slide to the bottom. For that was when I could feel the front-end of the truck starting to lift-up with 12,400 pounds of weight on the steer tires, and 140 MPH came to mind.

No, I really didn’t think that I was doing anything exceedingly reckless. For the grade of the downhill slide was not very steep at all, and there were no thoughts of possibly blowing a tire or two rattling around in my head.

Anyway, it was not until it was time for the rest of this story to begin that I really got scared. For that was when my radar-detector sounded-off with all it had, and then I saw the tail-lights of a vehicle coming out of the median and heading back east towards Wendover.

I pooped my pants for real that time, and I had to wait until the truck slowed-down on its own some before I could stop and clean-up the mess. For my brake pads (all 20 of them) would have surely burst into flames if I had of tried to stop while still going that fast.

Besides, I figured that hitting my brakes immediately after getting hit by a radar gun would have been a dead give-away that the unit might not be as much out of calibration as the trooper may have been thinking. On the other hand, it may very well have been that it was at the end of the shift, and the cop just did not feel like having to fill out all of the paperwork that was required to justify the use of deadly-force. For they did not write speeding tickets for 140 MPH back then—especially not when a chicken-hauler was involved.

No, I never pulled a stunt like that again, but this is not to say that I started pulling-in on the reins all that much after my miraculous rescue. For I was just having too much fun, and I certainly did not want the party to end anytime soon.

Much to my delight—it did not. For I continued to criss-cross the country just as fast as was humanly possible for quite a while.

It could even be said that super-human endurance had to have been involved (naturally-speaking, of course). For I took home over $1,000 a week for nine straight weeks while only getting 18 cents per mile!

Yes, the numbers can boggle the mind of the inexperienced, but after breaking it all down into smaller bites, acceptance of the truth of the matter should become much easier to swallow. For it only takes seventeen hours to travel 1,020 miles at an average of only 60 MPH.

Nonetheless, it still took a great deal of endurance to maintain such a torrid pace day after day, and with any increase in mileage came an exponential increase in stress. For like what was said before, there were all sorts of things out there on the road that could bite a driver on the buttocks at some very inopportune times, and not the least of these were speeding tickets.

Well, not exactly. That is, at least not for me. For as long as I did not get a ticket in Texas, and made enough money to pay all of the others (around 12 per year during my really wild days) on time, no points would ever show-up on my Texas Class A Driver's License because Texas did not recognize infractions in other jurisdictions at the time.

It was, however, the obligatory logbook check that went along with getting a speeding ticket that was a big problem for me. For on top of the fine involved if found in violation, a stoppage of at least 8 hours was almost always also included, and that was enough to throw a schedule way off.

Yes, concerns over getting caught in violation of the Hours of Service Regulations were quite stressful, but all of the effort that went into trying to avoid getting caught was almost as bad. For the miles had to be accounted for, and the faster and farther traveled—the harder it got to do so.

To give you an example, it legally took 28 hours to get to Buffalo, NY from my outfit's home-base (1,003 miles). Whereas, I once made it in 10.5 hours (around a 96 MPH average).

Therefore, it would take 3 different logbooks to be safe while making such a run. For I would start out with one that would have my time of departure backed up just a few hours in order to account for my speed, and when I had gone around 500 miles, I would fill-out another log book that backed up my time of departure enough to account for the total length of the trip and 8 hours of off-duty time. The other logbook would be used to provide the company with the original of each days log to keep on record as required by law.

It was (of course) those originals that the DOT would audit from time to time, and my company was a prime target. For their reputation was well known far and wide.

No, I do not know how they did it. Perhaps some deft slight-of-hand was employed or something much more conventional—like bribery? For they survived every audit relatively unscathed while I was there, and I was sure glad that they did.

Despite all of the fun that I was having purely from tearing back and forth across the country like a bat out of Hell (yeah, I really did go there, Pete) with its tail on fire, I would still get bored from time to time, and that is when I would take my turn at tormenting some greenhorn over the radio. Some of my favorite targets were drivers of Schneider trucks, which were nick-named pumpkin trucks because of being generally painted orange.

I hit the jack-pot one day while having to behave myself north of Columbus, OH on I-71. For after seeing a bunch of pumpkin trucks ahead of me, I asked over the radio if it was true that I could make a lot of money driving for Schneider. Lo and behold, one of their drivers answered me by saying that it was indeed true. I then asked him if he would tell me the truth about something, and after he said that he would if he could, I asked him if it was true that one of the bonuses for signing on with the outfit was that when a person completes one year of safe driving that they are given the location of the great pumpkin patch.

Yeah, I suppose you would have had to have been there, and I sure am glad I was. For there was nothing but dead silence over the radio for a good five minutes. I mean, even the stuff that had nothing to do with the conversation that I was having with that Schneider driver shut down.

Finally, someone else said that possibly learning the location of the great pumpkin patch would be enough to get them to think about signing up, and then the radio went dead silent again. Since no one ran off of the road from laughing too hard, I think a good time was had by all—except for maybe the Schneider drivers, of course.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

A Sunday Drive

Back during my childhood, our parents would often load up my brother and I after Sunday morning church services for a leisurely drive around where we lived. Even though we were seeing mostly familiar sights, it was still good to see them, and this is why “A Sunday Drive” sounded about right for the name of a weekly series revisiting familiar sites that are well worth seeing again and again.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Sites To See

This is the new version of FIVE FOR FRIDAY. As with the former, it is the SOLE purpose of this weekly series to call attention to sites that I think many would find most interesting—in one way or another. Please, go see for yourself.