Neanderpundit

Last night I watched a special with Steve Martin and Edie Brickell. That cracker can play the banjo, and that girl can sing.

No spring chicken she, but at 49 she still fills a dress nicely and the boots look good on her. And she puts me to mind of my cousin.

My cousin was a year or two older than me, and having grown up in a houseful of boys she knew her way around a socket set, and she was the first girl I knew who could drive a stick. She had a split bumper camaro and I remember helping her take the passenger side front quarter panel off it to change either a fan or a condenser, I don’t remember which. She looked damned good in a pair of jeans and had a face very like Edie Brickell’s. I was always a little pissed that the kind of girls I was attracted to all seemed to be first cousins. Not too many tomboys in my hometown.

She married a cop, had a son, sort of turned into a hausfrau, but still basically had the same looks. I haven’t seen her for nearly fifteen years but I wonder if she would still grin that crooked grin and jump in a car with me and head off like hooligans down the gravel and dust of southern illinois farm roads.

that makes you beg your cousin, who lives in a state where they sell the GOOD fireworks, to bring you as many Black Cats as you have pocket money? And what is it that makes you love to hear any explosion, from the snap of a cap to the earthshattering roar of a building demolition? Why is it that some of us cannot wait for the next fireworks show, or go out in search of the guns and ammo that makes the biggest flash and bang? At my age, my father had a good stack of explosives he kept in the junk drawer of his dresser. Just in case, doncha know. So it is most likely genetic.

And how soon will genetic manipulation let me get some more?

Twenty, or maybe twenty five years ago, I was working at a small facility of a major implement manufacturer in central illinois.

it was a miserable winter, and the work I was doing was tedious and annoying. All in all I spent 17 months in that plant, and even went back to spend a bunch more time there in later years. At that time, I was pretty green, and though the machines were plenty complex, I could already do most anything to or with them. And I had a good support crew; ten or twelve old masters who could answer most questions off the top of their head.

One of the in plant guys who was like that was… We’ll call him Jake. Crazy Jake. Because he was as crazy as could be. His behavior was unpredictable and unusual to the point of frightening most people. Once you got to know him, though, you were fine, because he never did anything harmful or mean spirited, though he could be embarrassing.

On one day in particular, there was a plant tour coming through, a bunch of asian women who worked as assemblers in a subsidiary plant in Japan. That day, I was working under a machine, and the only access point was a small cover on the side about waist height. The cover was about 2′ square, and I had managed to get myself into it about head and shoulders deep. I could hear the tour, and looking under my armpit saw them stop and ask Jake questions, whcih, not being Japanese, he didn’t understand, at all. (Their interpreter had stepped away). Jake, not one to miss an opportunity, started pointing at things on the machine, smiling, and jabbering in mock janglish while I tried to remain as invisible as I could be, for a guy with his ass hanging out of a machine. Then Jake stuck his hands in my hip pockets and started humping me like a dog.

Two or three of the women screamed, the rest giggled, and the interpreter returned from his break and dragged them away while Jake continued to thrust his (Thankfully, clothed) pelvis into my backside.

At least they never saw my face. So I got that going for me. Which is nice.