AS anyone who's ever purchased an "Automotive Vehicular Transport Unit" (Yes, I and my friends in AFJROTC used to come up with "Military Names" for common items that we'd run across in our daily lives. One of my proudest moments was christening the "Dual D-Cell Battery Powered Illumination Unit". Good times.) from any car lot, is that they have a propensity for festooning every surface of the vehicle with sticker's and placards declaring where the vehicle had been purchased from. Personally, I'm not fond of having my back bumper proclaim that I got my wheels from "Bjork Munson's Used Auto, Bait, Tackle, and All-night Video Tape Rental... East Asshole, TN"... No matter how pleased I am with my purchase.
Now, I buy Used (Not "Pre-Owned" or "Pre-Loved" you Uppity Fucks) transportation. Invariably. In fact, I've never owned a New car in my life... Nor do I intend to. There's something about the fact that my car automatically "depreciates" in value by 5 to 20%, just due to the fact that I drove it off the Lot, that stops me from from getting something shiny. Not to mention the old "Let me talk to my Manager" gambit. I'd "druther" deal with old Bjork. I know I'm being lied to, but at least I'm being lied to by the man who makes the damned decisions.
At any rate... I was over to the 'Rents floating crib, showing my new ride off to my Momma, when I got the notion to start peeling off the "Free Advertisements that were all over the bumper and tailgate. I started working on the "Torkelson's BeaterMobile, West Asshole, TN" (the one that had been on there more than a year) sticker with my pocketknife, while dad commenced on the "Bjork's" sticker with a fingernail. If this had been the Tennessee vs. Georgia game, I'da been the Bulldogs. The new sticker fell off with a hard glance, and the old one took a jackhammer. Contented with the fact that my rear bumper was now a solid Red...Maroon...Burgandy...or something, I felt the need to address the front license plate.
Tennessee does not require a driver to have a plate that duplicates the one on the rear on the front, so you can use your's for personal expression. I figured that a Confederate Battle Jack would do nicely, but as far as I consider myself a "Rebel" (If they chose sides again, I would choose "Grey".) I was unable to find a suitable adornment to convey my spirits. This afternoon, I found myself at the local Auto Parts Conglomerate, and I ran across't just the thing... A do-it-yer-self-placard. It "come" with a baseball, football, basketball, and soccer emblem's, and a whole crap-ton of letters what you could stick on it.
It took me a few minutes to decide what would be emblazoned upon the foremost of my truckster, but I eventually decided upon the decalrative statement on a T-Shirt that I recently purchased. If you see a "rocker" in a Red GMC pullin' up, then you'll know that it's me. Am, F, C, G
Wow. I only worked an eight hour day today. That's nice, and it would've been even nicer if the job wasn't an hour and a half drive away from the crib, but still...
I got home today still "feeling my oats". I pulled up my Fantasy Football League site shortly after I arrived, only to discover that I was still ranked number 1 of the group after the Monday night games. Needless to say I was absolutely shocked. I've never played any type of "Fantasy" sports before in my life, and
(due to my hurted eyeball and work schedule) I was unable to make any changes to my roster before the games were played, so my team had a running back (you can pick two) and my tight end did not even play at all this weekend. Still and all, I was Numero Uno in the group that I'm competing against. Sweet!
As I was checking out the www.jasminlive.mobi stats and such, I decided to pull up my WinAmp and listen to a few tunes while I was surfing. I was listening to a tune that I haven't enjoyed in quite awhile... and I was inspired. I actually got my guitar out of its case. I've not even held the damn thing in pushing six months, but something told me to get it out and try again. After I tuned it up, I cued up the song that I'd been previously jammin' on.
Lord God! I suck. I couldn't remember which chords comprised the song I wanted to play. This used to be a tune that was "good". ("Good" equates to any song I can actually play. "Horrible Tunes" are generally played by Lindsay Buckingham, Eric Clapton, and Warren Zevon.) After scratching through every piece of paper in the goddamn house, I finally found one that had the Chord Progression on it ( I knew it was HERE, I just didn't know WHERE), and after a few "play through's" I finally got it again.
I'm an awful guitarist, but I still Love the instrument, and I am pleased when I can make the noises that I wish, emenate from it.
Damn.
I need to Practice.
So... I'm on the job today. I was working on the bottom hoistway door, and my helper was working on the cartop. He had come downstairs to pull some wires down into the COP, and went back up. I was talking to the electrician's for a few moments, and then I heard a tremendous crash. It took about a half a second for my brain to formulate that someone had fallen off of something, and I immediately thought it was my helper.
Let me tell you that I was at a Dead Run up those stairs, before any of the electrician's even pulled their jaw's up. I turned the corner upstairs, only to see "Bobby" heading my way yelling "John! Guy's! Come help!". When I saw him, there was the briefest moment of relief that flitted through my head, (He's an 18 year-old kid who I really like, and I would have a lot of trouble living with myself if anything befell him while he was on one of my jobs.) then I saw the "Finish Rocker" who had been "Mudding" drywall joints laying on his back on the cold concrete.
Most of what follows is more a "sense memory" than anything else: I bent over him, and shook him slightly, and asked if he was okay... no response. I looked at his eyes, and saw that they were slightly open, but nobody was home. I saw jhim blow a bubble with his saliva, so I figured he was breathing. The "Lead Man" of the electrician's had arrived upstairs, and he said something to the effect of "Cover him up... you know. Shock." Not a bad idea, so I did a quick 360 and saw nothing suitable, so I took off my jacket and coverred him up as best I could. I grabbed for my phone to call 911, and the electrician beat me to it, so I went back to my "patient". I was kneeling down in front of him, and took his head into my hand. I checked to see if he was still breathing, and that his ariway was clear. I almost started CPR, but he began to heavily inhale. I started to get really concerned when he exhaled. It didn't come out as a puff of air, but as the most disguieting "HRNNNNNNNnnnnnnnnn" sound. I just held his head for a few moments while he continued this labored breathing. Something in my mind told me that he was trying to say "Huuuuuurt" when he exhaled, so I asked him where it hurt. Still unresponsive, and his eyes were still dead. I remember saying "Oh Jesus" when I saw the blood come out of his right ear and splash down onto my hand. "He's gonna Fuckin' Die on me" went through my head. Then he started to move his head around. I tried to tell him to lie still, and that help was on the way, but I might as well have told the wall. He started to roll over, and I just had to let him. He got up on his hands and knees, and blood started rolling out of his nose. He crawled over to a ledge, and then pulled himself to his feet. He stood there leaning on the ledge, and we all were trying to tell him to lie back down and take it easy. Then the EMT's showed up, and I backed off.
I guess it was around five minutes total from when I arrived until help got there. Great response time but the town I'm working in only has around 2000 people or so, so they didn't have to come very far. I can almost throw a rock and hit the local community hospital. The Medics were doing there thing, and I was extremely relieved to hear him responding to their questions. Unfortunately, he didn't know how old he was. He told them that he was in his "Thirties" when they asked him, then responded "1958" when he was asked how old he was. He sounded kinda "muddy" when he spoke. They got him into a neck brace, and were halfway through getting him strapped onto a gurney when I heard him say (In a clear voice) "What the Hell happenned?". Damn was I happy to hear that.
This incident occurred at around 11:45 AM, and I'm still trying to come down from the adrenaline high. As far as I know, I was the only person on the job who is certified in First Aid/CPR, and this was the first time that I've had to use it. I'm pleased that I was actually able to do Something, but I can't help but feel that there was more I could/should have done to assist this man. (Some people just "lock up" under pressure, but I proved to myself today that I'm capable of reacting in these situations... That's good to know.) The Eight-Hour training session that I took to get my certification actually did some good, but I think I'm going to start re-reading the material's that I was given during the course, I don't know... at least once a month. I need to train myself better for the off-chance that this type of thing happens again. Next time, it may be an hour or two before the Paramedic's show up.
That whole "He's gonna die on me" feeling, Fucked with me... HARD. (I'm still getting a lump in my throat when I think about it.) If there's ever a next time, I'm resolved to be better prepared. What if it's "Bobby"?... Or any of my Family?... Or my Friends?... Or another Complete Stranger? I need to feel like I did all that I "Should Have Done" when the Pro's arrive, instead of all that I "Could Have Done".
I'm here to tell ya www.chaturbaterooms.com folks. That Shit Scared Me.
Redneck Street Cred...
For the last three and a half years, I've been a RINO (Redneck In Name Only). Sure, I'm a burly construction worker, I cuss a lot, I wear steel-toed boots, flannell and I are really close, and I hotwired my own vehicle as a work-around. All these things are pretty good, but there's been a glaring hole in my redneckitude, the one thing that all redneck's must have in some form... yep, that's right. A Pickup Truck.
Here lately, the minivan's been on the fritz (Hell, I oughtta revoke my own man-card for for merely typing those previous words.) and I've been looking for a new set of wheels. Since I've been driving up to Middlesboro, Kentucky for the last few weeks (I'm building an elevator up there), I've had my eye on a little Nissan pickup that's been sitting on a used car lot. I finally stopped in and checked it out last friday. up close, I liked it even better, as it reminded me of the last nissan pickup that I owned. I figured that if I could find a ride back up there Saturday morning, I might just get myself a new (to me) ride.
I made a few calls trying to contact a girl from https://www.jasminelive.online/, and my Dad agreed to carry me to the dealership, so now all I had to do was make it to the bank in enough time to pull out the cash. After getting 35 crisp-new $100 bills, I finalized plans for the trip (It's an hour's drive from the crib). Dad showed up at the appointed time Saturday Morning, and we struck out for the wilds of New Tazewell, TN.
When we arrived at the dealership, I went5 straight for the vehicle that had caught my eye...'91 Nissan 4x4, Ice Blue, color matched camper top, reese hitch rear bumper, and it's a Five Speed "bolt action". I fired that thing up for my test drive, and spotted a wisp of blue smoke in the mirror. I got her out on the road, and realized that something wasn't right. As soon as I hit fourth gear, the tranny wasn't engaging... Fifth was worse. My dreams were dashed. The vehicle that I craved was a bum steer.
The dealer had a little toyota, that he'd sell me. Another 4x4, 4 cylinder, automatic, and the paint was peeling off it so fast that when I took it out, the chips stuck to the Goddamn windshield. While I was out driving, My Dad spied another truck on the lot. It was a two wheel drive, Five speed, manual transmission, with a few body issues, but appeared mechanically sound.
When I pulled out in this ride, I immediately knew that I had a new vehicle. Power was there... shifts were clean, and the interior was comfortable. I've now got me a 1996 GMC Sonoma pick-em-up-truckster, and I couldn't be more pleased. According to my Dad, I chirped the rear tires on a shift from second to third gear, on the drive home. I was jammin' the stereo at the time, so I missed it. I've driven aprox. 120 miles, and have just now drained a quarter of a tank out of it. I've got a feeling that my Dad spotted the ideal truck for me.
At any rate, I'ma rollin' a pickup now... so my street cred is pure. I'm thinkin' that a confederate flag front license plate is now in order... Just to seal the deal.
You all know what it's like to be Dead-on Flat-ass Broke don't you? Not two nickels to rub together, running out of smokes, the last beer is in the fridge but you don't wanna drink it 'cuz then you're OUT OF BEER!, no prospects are forthcoming for gainful employment, and you're woefully depressed about your lot in life. What do you do? Beg a couple hunnert offa buddy? Nah, my brains' internal wiring won't allow me to do that. (Hell, Jennifer was kind enough to pick me up a bottle of Very Old Barton to tide me through, and I gave her shit about it. "I support my own vices." I believe I told her.) Go crawling to Mom and Dad? Nope, did that too many times already. Time to stop being a burden to 'em. Put in applications to even the shittiest of jobs? They were in, just the damned phone didn't ring.
When I was out doing a few odd job's for my rommate's parents (Painting thier rental duplex, putting in new faucets, crap like that. ) I passed by the local "Hock Shop" and had to make a hard decision. At the time, I was the proud possessor of two Acoustic, and two Electric guitars. My Amplifier was on the fritz, so I decided that the Fender Squier Strat and the Epiphone Les Paul were on the block. These were both Cheap Ass guitars, so I knew that I wouldn't get much for them. I looked over at my Antares Acoustic/Electric (Made in some third-world country, action so crappy that you have to hit it with a hammer to get any noise out of it, Ivory plastic string guide broken free from the neck, $75 Pawn Shop guitar) and my Martin DM (First, check the list price on that sucker! this is a Low-End Martin.).
When I went to buy that Martin guitar, a friend and coworker took me out to a place in the middle of nowhere called Ciderville Music Store (See #4 on the listing, yes they deserve that 5-star rating.) where I played nearly every Martin Guitar they had on the shelves (they had a LOT). I remember when I first carressed her neck, I got a little tingle, and when I struck a string she positively SPOKE OUT, that she was playing. It was Love. When I stepped up to the counter to pay for it, the man there said "I'll just get you a new one in the box." I told him in no uncertain terms that I did not want this model of guitar... I wanted THIS guitar. He was delightd to sell it to me. I had that guitar for six years, and I don't know how many miles.
I carried the Strat, the Les Paul, and my beloved Martin down to the "Super-Astro-Atomic-Mega-Pawnapalooza, and sold them. I came out of the place with enough cake to get me through to my retail gig, which led to my current profession. After all of the overtime and "Rush Jobs", I'm finally Flush again.
On an impulse, I went out last night and purchased something that has been lacking in my recent life. A Fender Stratocaster. I needed something that was actually "playable" in order to actually play. I was doing the "Am, F, C G" along with the tune in question, last evening, and enjoyed myself most furiously. As for Harvey's request for Mp3's... Maybe after some more practice.