OLD RED

     I got a new (old) truck. It’s a tradition in our family to name our vehicles. It’s also part of the American love affair with the internal combustion engine to attach human identity to an inanimate object like a car or truck. Since the Model T rolled off that old anti-semite Henry Ford’s assembly line, Americans have been anthropomorphizing their vehicles. You may name your boat, vehicle or dildo but you don’t name your iPhone, fridge or toaster. The automobile stands side by side with these other precious products in being welcomed into the family by consumers with a loving moniker. Old Red was named by my great niece Elise. Her reasoning was that by the time I sold the truck, I (and the truck) would be old—hence the name fit. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that we both are presently circling the scrap heap. Time is of the essence. “Old” is a relative term.

    It’s big news in the countryside when someone gets a new pick up. For me, the past couple of years without one have been difficult. My last truck, a beautiful 1984 step side named Jerry, rusted out so badly it was not safe to drive. It joined two other vehicles Shirley and Beth, who I heartlessly neglected to feed oil, forcing each into early retirement. Shirley, is a Sebring convertible I filled with concrete and Beth has an apple tree growing through her roof. Both were good cars and even better sculptures. I’m at a loss with what to do with Jerry. Hopefully I’ll think of something soon. Maybe I’ll just tow him over to Mountain Dale and park him in the Social Sculpture Park as an Air B&B venue. Bed in a bed anyone?

    Old Red  is a 2000 Ford F150, 2 wheel drive with an eight foot bed— beautifully basic. It had one owner, an old duffer who barely drove it. It was cheap and hopefully will be reliable. And this brings me to the problem with all that I’ve been writing so far. POLLUTION! I probably spend more money  on gasoline than anything else. Beer, pot and food are numbers two, three and four in that order. Taxes (too high) phone (rotary) insurance (car) internet (slow) ammunition (rifle and shotgun) and art supplies (could be anything) round out my monthly nut. Like everyone else I have a hand in destroying the planet. Because Samm and I have separate houses about 20 miles apart and enjoy each other’s company immensely, I find myself filling up the tank repeatedly to make the journey. How can I stop my part in increasing global warming?

   Here’s some possible solutions: 1) I could move in with Samm. Mention that I suggested this and it may get her to read my blog, just to stop any local threat to her way of life. I know she’d rather see the planet heat up a bit more than trip over my boots every morning. 2) I could get an electric car. I really don’t have the funds. Plus, where the hell would I charge it? The big automobile and fossil fuel companies have delayed infrastructure indefinitely, especially in the countryside. I’d have to have it towed to the city to get juiced. 3) Horse? 4) Goat cart? 5) Hitchhike? 6) Stop having sex and stay home? All these solutions take too much time to go twenty miles and #6 is a non-starter. Given that option we’d both rather let the world burn!  I’m stymied.

   For now I’m just going to have to continue filling up the tank and hope that the emissions of my twenty year old truck are not too severe. I heat by wood, shoot my own meat (when I’m lucky) don’t eat much and steer clear of unnecessary consumerism. Of course I could grow my own marijuana and load my own bullets, but that could also become problematic around harvest time/hunting season. How much gunpowder did I put in that shell? This homegrown is excellent! I think I’d better leave the manufacture of ammunition to Winchester. A greener garden is always an option. My footprint is small compared to most. I just wanted you all to know that I’m conscious of my role as a polluter and am always open to new avenues to better myself. Oh, and I still roll my own joints. Beware the vape! 

  Many will be relieved to know that I’ve scraped my plans to open MO David North- Art and Ammo. After further investigation, the guy at the Sullivan County Clerk’s office told me I needed a Federal Firearms Dealer’s license just to sell ammunition; even if I didn’t sell guns. It would take at least six months to get the proper permits. Who knows where we’ll be in six months. For now I’ll stock up on shells for deer season (and possible revolution) and hope there is no more grandstanding from the box stores. BAN ASSAULT WEAPONS and LARGE CAPACITY MAGAZINES NOW! Do you hear me Dick?