I’m taking posession of a mid-nineties Chevy Astro minivan next week. The van will be the spiritual successor to The S.A.W. and thus requires a worthy name. I’m too fried to think of one and am holding a naming contest for it. Feel free to submit your ideas in the comments. If I give the van your name I’ll send you a free print of the image of your choice from my photography site.
As far as names go, naming the new vehicle “The Starving Artist Van” is out as it is already taken. The S.A.W.’s name was actually me paying homage to the somewhat bedraggled van piloted by my friend and mentor, Larrie Thomson.
To those who inquired by e-mail, thanks for your concern, but the death of the station wagon wasn’t overly dramatic. It got me to work at the restaurant, but wouldn’t start when it was time to go home. A mechanic friend had a look and pronounced that the cams in the engine (along with a goodly number of seals) were shot. All that’s left now is to dispose of the corpse.
In other news, I’ve taken an indefinite vacation from the restaurant and have plans to take the van on a photo outing to Hoosier Saskatchewan next week where dead buildings and vehicles abound (Heaven, basically). I need some time with my camera to kick start my sense of humour as it seems to have atrophied over the past few months.
So… Any takers? I gotta buy a replacement for The S.A.W. (may it Rust In Peace).
“Ew.”
“What?”
“Skunk.”
[ sniffing ]
“Ew. Somebody must’ve hit one.”
“That or someone’s been drinking a Lethbridge Pilsner.”
The mice have been evicted. The mouse crud has been vacuumed up. The interior is being steam-cleaned. The battery is being recharged.
The S.A.W. lives again!
I was out cruising a back road yesterday when I saw the damndest sight. There was a large slough to the left of the road with two small islands in the middle. Both islands were so encrusted with Canadian Geese that I couldn’t see any grass or dirt on the small island. There were hundreds more geese swimming nearby. So I pulled over to take some pictures of this…
…and nearly killed myself. Apparently the back right brake on The S.A.W. has a tendancy to grab. I discovered this when I suddenly found myself travelling sideways down a gravel road at 90 kph. I managed to correct the skid and pull over. After giving my butt five minutes to unclench, I grabbed my camera and stepped out of The S.A.W. to capture some images of the geese.
Whoops.
These are rural geese. Hunted rural geese. Ever heard over five hundred geese taking off simultaneously? It sounds pretty impressive. What was more impressive was that they flew straight at me. I quickly jumped back into the car and watched little green goose pellets go splat all around me. The bombardment ended quickly and the geese were gone. All that was left were a few ducks out of range of my 300mm lens and some slough grass. I took a picture of a nearby drilling rig as a consolation prize, but I’m still feeling put out at missing such a spectacular shot of the geese.
I’m going back and trying for the honkers again this evening.
You’d think the waitresses out here would all look like Daisy Duke, but they don’t. And instead of The General, I’m stuck driving The S.A.W. Life is so unfair.
This week’s lesson is not to drive down the highway with my arm hanging out the window of The S.A.W. Why, you ask? It’s because we have lots of grasshoppers here right now, and they love to sun themselves on the highway. Of course, they’ll leap away at the last instant when they realize there’s a station wagon bearing down on their scaly little asses, but not fast enough to keep them from bouncing off the windshield or the driver’s exposed flesh.
A grasshopper ricocheting off the back of one’s hand at 100 kph feels like being shot at close range with an .18 caliber BB pellet.
Wife: There’s something on the road ahead.
Me: Some critter got pasted.
Wife: Skunk!
Us: Ew! Ew! Ew!
The important thing to know about The S.A.W. is that it’s an older GM product. The heaters on those didn’t come with RECIRC buttons so you can keep the cloying stench of dead skunk from entering your vehicle.
I’m convinced there’s a porcupine death cult operating in my area. I’ve seen one dead porcupine a day on the road for the last eight days now. I don’t believe for a moment that there are actually that many porcupines prowling the roads and back roads in our area. This is obviously the work of a Satanic cult, and they’re just trying to fool the authorities by leaving the corpses on roadways where they’ll get run over. Well, I’m onto them.
The S.A.W. has one of those nasty Delco radio/cassette combos, but I have it on good authority that it has the same problem with tapes that Mike Tyson has with ears. Even if I owned any cassettes, and I don’t, I wouldn’t be able to play them. Ergo, no tunes. So I found myself listening to AM talk radio instead during a drive out to New Brigden, nodding in agreement with all of the rednecks phoning in and enjoying it.
Yesterday I took out a gopher that was terrorizing my wife’s flower bed in front of the office. I enjoyed that too.
Then it hit me.
I’m a redneck artist living in the middle of nowhere who likes talk radio and killing small animals. Can somebody please tell me when the hell I turned into Kate McMillan?
