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HYD.
January 20, 2004
Car Talk.
My father was a strange man. Even before his death in 2001, his various weirdnesses, and all the funny stories about him had taken on legendary status. Pothsumously, they are mythic. Despite the fact that, for 31 years, I have heard nothing other than that I am his practical clone in almost all ways, I have always been at least a little glad that I didn't pick up some of his more bizarre and hilarious quirks, especially the ones vehicular in nature.
For example, the man frequently put peanuts in his Coke and drank it right in front of me. I once hypothesized that he did this so that I would not sneak sips of his drink on car rides, but he claimed it was something he had done since childhood and that I was welcome to try it. I passed. (This was only something I ever saw him do in the car. I also witnessed, many times, his straight ingestion of BC Powder, washed down with coffee. I swore I could never do such a thing, but now I do it all the time. But only in the car.)
Daddy also had a habit of running out of gas, quite often. So often that another of his habits included stopping on the side of the road to help any other poor unfortunate in the same position, even if they were obviously intoxicated or wearing a prison jumpsuit. I mean, he didn't care. Nobody was going to rob Bill Lowe. What would they take, his peanuts or the 10-year-old blue book he had in the glove compartment? (Just yesterday, I remembered a story I should tell here about him stopping to help these two ladies who had broken down on the side of the road. This entry is so long, though, I will have to tell it later.)
As an insurance adjuster, he spent a lot of time in his car. It is a thankless job, insurance adjusting. He drove all over the state visiting people who had experienced serious tragedies: burned down houses, wrecked cars, loss of property. In some ways, he was the perfect man for the job. He didn't mind being in the car, for one thing. For another, he was extremely sensitive, and kind. He didn't hardnose people, if he could help it. I know this is true, because in my lifetime I have eaten many pies and worn many knitted scarves from thankful old women he did right by when they had to turn to their insurance policies to replace what they'd lost.
I just hope those same old ladies never got a glimpse of the inside of his car. Never in history has there been such a sight as his file-strewn, doghair-covered, coffee-stained backseat. Anyone who has to drive a lot for work probably knows of what I speak. Your car turns into some kind of apartment, equivalent to an 8th story walk-up in the Bronx, complete with a hotplate, two pillows, a map of a state you've never visited and an empty can of Lysol. If it's a company car, which a lot of my father's cars were, there are probably all kinds of other mysterious items lodged under the seats from drivers past, like phone books from 1976, sugar packets, a school picture of a child you don't know and a few film canisters of photos you're afraid to get developed.
Many times as we all sat down for dinner, Mother would slam her hand on the table and ask, in that voice of hers that told you you'd better have an answer, "Where is your daddy?" My Uncle Bird, a great fan of my father's, would usually list off some potential locations: "Oh, Bomber's probably down at the U-Totem (a convenience store that had not been open in years). Or maybe he's sitting at the unfinished end of the highway, you know, waiting on them to finish it."
Just when we had started really laughing, the man would stroll in saying "heyyyy," and offering no explanation. Honestly, who knows where he had been? To this day, most of his movements between 1980 and 1991 are a complete mystery.
We made endless jokes about Daddy in his car. One of the many things I teased him about was how he would sit in the car and eat his lunch in some random parking lot, listening to sports talk radio or "doing the crossword." That was all he needed in the world to be satisfied. Give him a choice between Beef Wellington at the Ritz Carlton, and half of a day-old chicken sandwich and cold fries behind the still wheel of a Ford K-car, and he would choose the latter any day.
I'm telling you, we made fun of him for years. To his credit, he was very good natured about it, even in the face of my constant attacks on his radio station choices. Bill Lowe would listen to a basketball game played in Belize, broadcast in Spanish from a tin can wrapped in dental floss on a 200-watt station. The reception would be so fuzzy, you couldn't tell the pops from the cracks. But there he'd be, sitting in the parking lot of the Winn-Dixie, drinking a peanut-Coke and turning it up to ear-splitting decibels.
It used to make me just shake my head, but recently, people, I have come to understand all. This news shocked and appalled Mother, but it's true... I have started to do it, too.
It all just snuck up on me. One day I was driving to lunch and accidentally tuned in to a local sports radio show, known worldwide as The 2-Live Stews. I fell totally in love. It's really the greatest sports show I've ever heard, done by two former-athlete brothers who spend most of the program yelling at each other and occasionally laughing so hard and so long there will be dead air for minutes at a time. They spend a lot of time talking about the NFL, which I hate, and yet, I listen anyway - 1) for the black college football report, which I think is excellent, and 2) for the call-in regulars, most of whom are crazy and hilarious.
My love for the Stews is such that I now listen to them almost every day. Every Monday, they dedicate part of the show to people calling in to give their "Ballers and Busters." (There are times when I want to call in so bad, but to get through, you have to be some kind of member of the radio station club, or something, so I don't, but you know when all of this hit the fan, the first thing I thought about was "what are the Stews going to say?!" It was all I could do not to rush out to the car right then. I would have sat on hold for three days just to give a Buster Award to Philip Fulmer. If you don't want to hit the link, let me brief you: It was recently revealed that the main accuser against the U of Alabama several years ago when we were sanctioned for recruiting violations was Fulmer, head coach of the hated Tennessee Vols. To quote JoLowe, "grown men all over the state started calling for his head like crazed maniacs.")
Now, I have never called in to any kind of radio station. (To my knowledge, the only time I've ever appeared on the radio was when I was interviewed by, I believe, a station in Finland who called to talk to me about winning the World's First Online Karaoke Contest, and I am still half-convinced it was just pamie playing a joke on me, though she continues to deny it.) I will not, most likely, ever call in to any show. I am pretty sure my dad never called in to any, either. This is an important point to make, understand, when examining this experience both of us have had with the car radio. Even Bill Lowe had a cell phone for several years. He could have easily called in to Paul Finebaum, an Alabama sportswriter/broadcaster with whom he had a feverish love/hate relationship.
I could muster up my nerve and call the Stews some time, as well, but despite my yearnings to hear them say "Big Al from the L-ville, what you GOT?" I don't think I ever will - because, I've figured out what it's all about. What I never understood, until now, is that what Daddy was doing out there in those parking lots for so many years, was some peaceful meditation. Sitting in a climate-controlled car, having enough food to eat, not having to be anywhere for a while... people talking all around you, but not asking you to respond? It's like being in the womb - you are in the right place, on the way to somewhere else; the whole world is right out the window, and you can hold off on getting into the mix, for at least a little while. It's very comfortable. He didn't want to ruin that by having to engage in communications.
I see his philosophy very clearly now that I have assumed the legacy. A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting the parking lot of the Chamblee-Tucker Road Publix, eating a turkey sandwich and listening to the Stews when someone knocked on my window. Instantly, I thought "Can't a person just sit in their car in peace?!" I was seriously mad about it. You shouldn't go barging in on someone's privacy like that. I know they could see me sitting there, and it didn't SEEM like I was doing anything, but honestly, am I going to have to post a No Soliciting sign on my car doors? Anyway, I rolled down the window and this guy gave me his pitch - he was trying to raise money for a downtown homeless shelter. I gave him $5, and let me tell you why. First of all, I've been homeless. My house burned down, and yes, I had plenty of places to stay, but only by the grace of God and our good friends were we able to refuse the help of the Red Cross and their Super 8 flea motel voucher. Secondly, one of the guy's main selling points was that when the homeless men come in, they get a meal, a clean bed, counseling and "you know, the brothers can get a haircut if they needs one, and everything." Lord, Lord. Take my money. You think I'm going to hold up a brother who needs a haircut?
I can't say I'm particularly proud I've picked up the Bill Lowe car habit. I know it seems strange to people, Mother and Chris, especially. But when I sit there listening to bad radio, crumbs all over my shirt, digging through a pile of papers looking for an unfinished crossword, there's no mystery about who's behind the wheel. I know my father is driving me, and like him, I may not know where I'm going, but at least, at that moment, I know where I am.
http://www.hateyourdaddy.com/hyd/
January 20, 2004
Car Talk.
My father was a strange man. Even before his death in 2001, his various weirdnesses, and all the funny stories about him had taken on legendary status. Pothsumously, they are mythic. Despite the fact that, for 31 years, I have heard nothing other than that I am his practical clone in almost all ways, I have always been at least a little glad that I didn't pick up some of his more bizarre and hilarious quirks, especially the ones vehicular in nature.
For example, the man frequently put peanuts in his Coke and drank it right in front of me. I once hypothesized that he did this so that I would not sneak sips of his drink on car rides, but he claimed it was something he had done since childhood and that I was welcome to try it. I passed. (This was only something I ever saw him do in the car. I also witnessed, many times, his straight ingestion of BC Powder, washed down with coffee. I swore I could never do such a thing, but now I do it all the time. But only in the car.)
Daddy also had a habit of running out of gas, quite often. So often that another of his habits included stopping on the side of the road to help any other poor unfortunate in the same position, even if they were obviously intoxicated or wearing a prison jumpsuit. I mean, he didn't care. Nobody was going to rob Bill Lowe. What would they take, his peanuts or the 10-year-old blue book he had in the glove compartment? (Just yesterday, I remembered a story I should tell here about him stopping to help these two ladies who had broken down on the side of the road. This entry is so long, though, I will have to tell it later.)
As an insurance adjuster, he spent a lot of time in his car. It is a thankless job, insurance adjusting. He drove all over the state visiting people who had experienced serious tragedies: burned down houses, wrecked cars, loss of property. In some ways, he was the perfect man for the job. He didn't mind being in the car, for one thing. For another, he was extremely sensitive, and kind. He didn't hardnose people, if he could help it. I know this is true, because in my lifetime I have eaten many pies and worn many knitted scarves from thankful old women he did right by when they had to turn to their insurance policies to replace what they'd lost.
I just hope those same old ladies never got a glimpse of the inside of his car. Never in history has there been such a sight as his file-strewn, doghair-covered, coffee-stained backseat. Anyone who has to drive a lot for work probably knows of what I speak. Your car turns into some kind of apartment, equivalent to an 8th story walk-up in the Bronx, complete with a hotplate, two pillows, a map of a state you've never visited and an empty can of Lysol. If it's a company car, which a lot of my father's cars were, there are probably all kinds of other mysterious items lodged under the seats from drivers past, like phone books from 1976, sugar packets, a school picture of a child you don't know and a few film canisters of photos you're afraid to get developed.
Many times as we all sat down for dinner, Mother would slam her hand on the table and ask, in that voice of hers that told you you'd better have an answer, "Where is your daddy?" My Uncle Bird, a great fan of my father's, would usually list off some potential locations: "Oh, Bomber's probably down at the U-Totem (a convenience store that had not been open in years). Or maybe he's sitting at the unfinished end of the highway, you know, waiting on them to finish it."
Just when we had started really laughing, the man would stroll in saying "heyyyy," and offering no explanation. Honestly, who knows where he had been? To this day, most of his movements between 1980 and 1991 are a complete mystery.
We made endless jokes about Daddy in his car. One of the many things I teased him about was how he would sit in the car and eat his lunch in some random parking lot, listening to sports talk radio or "doing the crossword." That was all he needed in the world to be satisfied. Give him a choice between Beef Wellington at the Ritz Carlton, and half of a day-old chicken sandwich and cold fries behind the still wheel of a Ford K-car, and he would choose the latter any day.
I'm telling you, we made fun of him for years. To his credit, he was very good natured about it, even in the face of my constant attacks on his radio station choices. Bill Lowe would listen to a basketball game played in Belize, broadcast in Spanish from a tin can wrapped in dental floss on a 200-watt station. The reception would be so fuzzy, you couldn't tell the pops from the cracks. But there he'd be, sitting in the parking lot of the Winn-Dixie, drinking a peanut-Coke and turning it up to ear-splitting decibels.
It used to make me just shake my head, but recently, people, I have come to understand all. This news shocked and appalled Mother, but it's true... I have started to do it, too.
It all just snuck up on me. One day I was driving to lunch and accidentally tuned in to a local sports radio show, known worldwide as The 2-Live Stews. I fell totally in love. It's really the greatest sports show I've ever heard, done by two former-athlete brothers who spend most of the program yelling at each other and occasionally laughing so hard and so long there will be dead air for minutes at a time. They spend a lot of time talking about the NFL, which I hate, and yet, I listen anyway - 1) for the black college football report, which I think is excellent, and 2) for the call-in regulars, most of whom are crazy and hilarious.
My love for the Stews is such that I now listen to them almost every day. Every Monday, they dedicate part of the show to people calling in to give their "Ballers and Busters." (There are times when I want to call in so bad, but to get through, you have to be some kind of member of the radio station club, or something, so I don't, but you know when all of this hit the fan, the first thing I thought about was "what are the Stews going to say?!" It was all I could do not to rush out to the car right then. I would have sat on hold for three days just to give a Buster Award to Philip Fulmer. If you don't want to hit the link, let me brief you: It was recently revealed that the main accuser against the U of Alabama several years ago when we were sanctioned for recruiting violations was Fulmer, head coach of the hated Tennessee Vols. To quote JoLowe, "grown men all over the state started calling for his head like crazed maniacs.")
Now, I have never called in to any kind of radio station. (To my knowledge, the only time I've ever appeared on the radio was when I was interviewed by, I believe, a station in Finland who called to talk to me about winning the World's First Online Karaoke Contest, and I am still half-convinced it was just pamie playing a joke on me, though she continues to deny it.) I will not, most likely, ever call in to any show. I am pretty sure my dad never called in to any, either. This is an important point to make, understand, when examining this experience both of us have had with the car radio. Even Bill Lowe had a cell phone for several years. He could have easily called in to Paul Finebaum, an Alabama sportswriter/broadcaster with whom he had a feverish love/hate relationship.
I could muster up my nerve and call the Stews some time, as well, but despite my yearnings to hear them say "Big Al from the L-ville, what you GOT?" I don't think I ever will - because, I've figured out what it's all about. What I never understood, until now, is that what Daddy was doing out there in those parking lots for so many years, was some peaceful meditation. Sitting in a climate-controlled car, having enough food to eat, not having to be anywhere for a while... people talking all around you, but not asking you to respond? It's like being in the womb - you are in the right place, on the way to somewhere else; the whole world is right out the window, and you can hold off on getting into the mix, for at least a little while. It's very comfortable. He didn't want to ruin that by having to engage in communications.
I see his philosophy very clearly now that I have assumed the legacy. A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting the parking lot of the Chamblee-Tucker Road Publix, eating a turkey sandwich and listening to the Stews when someone knocked on my window. Instantly, I thought "Can't a person just sit in their car in peace?!" I was seriously mad about it. You shouldn't go barging in on someone's privacy like that. I know they could see me sitting there, and it didn't SEEM like I was doing anything, but honestly, am I going to have to post a No Soliciting sign on my car doors? Anyway, I rolled down the window and this guy gave me his pitch - he was trying to raise money for a downtown homeless shelter. I gave him $5, and let me tell you why. First of all, I've been homeless. My house burned down, and yes, I had plenty of places to stay, but only by the grace of God and our good friends were we able to refuse the help of the Red Cross and their Super 8 flea motel voucher. Secondly, one of the guy's main selling points was that when the homeless men come in, they get a meal, a clean bed, counseling and "you know, the brothers can get a haircut if they needs one, and everything." Lord, Lord. Take my money. You think I'm going to hold up a brother who needs a haircut?
I can't say I'm particularly proud I've picked up the Bill Lowe car habit. I know it seems strange to people, Mother and Chris, especially. But when I sit there listening to bad radio, crumbs all over my shirt, digging through a pile of papers looking for an unfinished crossword, there's no mystery about who's behind the wheel. I know my father is driving me, and like him, I may not know where I'm going, but at least, at that moment, I know where I am.
http://www.hateyourdaddy.com/hyd/
