Week 46: Dodge Viper GTS-R

I have a difficult time with exact years, but instead remember events as a fluid relationship to other events -- a 'that happened sometime after that one thing but a bit before that other' type of memory.

I find myself sleuthing when trying to remember when something occurred. Today's vehicle, a gift from Linda out west in Washington (thank you, Linda), is a Dodge Viper, and this caused me to go into full gumshoe mode. I'll explain.

This car made me remember that for a short time I sold Dodge vehicles and only once saw a Viper come onto the lot - I remember the Viper because I wasn't permitted to take it for a test drive. If I remember correctly, I wasn't even permitted to sit in it.

Now as I write this I don't remember exactly when I worked as a Dodge salesman. I seldom mention that position, not because anything was terrible, but only because the job was a long time ago and only for three months - a way to make ends meet in between jobs and one of a long line of in-between positions I held early in my adult life as an English major making his way in the world.

I remember those three months well, but I can't remember when they happened. Time to put on the weird double-sided Sherlock Holmes hat. Let's think: What do I know?

1. Dodge Vipers debuted in 1991, so it wasn't before that year.
2.  My now adult son was preschool age, so that puts it around mid 90s. Getting closer.
3. We were standing outside the showroom and I was quietly listening to the other salesmen (most of them substantially older than me) talking trash about...think, what was it...

Curt Cobain's death. That puts my stint as a car salesman during April, 1994. (Listening to those type of conversations also contributed to my short stay as a car salesman.)

I envy people who can instantly access months, days, and years without going through that comparison process, but that's not how my brain works.

Overall, this relational memory isn't so terrible except when it comes to my kids, and by that I mean talking about my kids. Parents are expected to remember important dates, or at least months, such as when their child learned to walk, use a spoon, ditch the diaper, and so on, and I don't. Ask me to tell you when my 11 year old began eating solid food and I feel like I'm flipping through the air like today's car picture -- everything stands still in panic. My memories are more like impressionist paintings rather than photos, full of color and emotion, but lacking in solid lines and crisp images.

This can be frustrating, because at times it may appear I'm not paying attention, but I am -- I'm just storing the info away in a different style.

Recently, however, I was thrilled to put this type of relational detective-work to good use.

My wife and I launched a vintage shop on Etsy as a side project for both of us, and numerous times I found an item without a clear date, where I have to look for clues.

I found a vintage map of Route 441 to Florida - I see it was pre-Disney World (opened 1971) and mentions the new golf course in Gatlinburg, TN, which through Google searching I see opened in 1955.

I secured a complete set of vintage Charles Atlas mail-order exercise programs, but wasn't sure if they were 30s or 40s. The last lesson says "Remember Pearl Harbor" so I now know these were not from the 30s.

And so on.

This hobby allows me to fully employ relational timekeeping without the guilt -- I can find specific markers of time events online and then compare what I know with what I suspect, AND I can feel great about my efforts.

Beyond my Etsy store, I also find this relational memory makes it easier to talk to my young kids, because they seem to process information similarly -- lots of vivid memories unencumbered by the tedium of days, months and years.

My memory is a pre-school impressionist vintage collection, with toy cars.

All things considered, I think I'm cool with that.


Doing a bit of sleuthing on this car, I determined this is from the 2005 Hot Wheels collection (sorry Linda -- even though the car was in a yellow Matchbox box, it's a Hot Wheels! -- Nonetheless, it's an awesome little diecast, and I love the flat black finish).


The dramatic wreck pictured in this week's blog courtesy of photographer Phil Pekarcik. 

Week 45: Pierce Dash Firetruck

Objects in mirror appear closer than they appear ... and like a firetruck with sirens screaming,  the responsibilities of this week are suddenly on my tail, but the metaphor ends at my tail. I can't just pull over and let  the responsibilities pass.

The past five days have been a whirlwind, but a whirlwind delivering a refreshing breathe of air nonetheless.

I have taken on a role on a board of directors for my church, launched a vintage / retro side business with my wife, and have been doing PR work for a great company on a contract basis.

Additionally, I have an appointment tomorrow morning with an artisan cheese-making operation, which I am excited to squeeze in amidst a number of other welcomed responsibilities.

The kids have been doing great, the tomatoes are growing, and life again feels like an adventure. I'm doing well.

But tired and slightly behind...on everything. Toward that, I apologize for this insubstantial blog, but 1am arrives in two minutes, and the eyelids are drooping.

Enjoy the excellent photo of the rushing firetruck taken by photographer Phil Pekarcik, and join me on Etsy where I'm currently parking Nickadizzy, the side business I mentioned.

I wonder if I can just catch a few zzz's right here at the desk....

Week 44: Lamborghini Reventón

Lamborghini Reventón. Fast, expensive, luxurious, exotic -- a car I might, at first consideration, think I would want.

Yet when it comes down to the truth, the actual car doesn't really match my own tastes. This car isn't my cup of tea.

Kids do that all the time -- the idea of something builds so much in their head that it nudges reality right out the bed. Such an occurrence happened tonight, but it turns out it was their cup of tea -- two cups of tea, actually.

I mean actual cups of tea.

The fiasco went like this: I went to the pantry to select some tea, when preschooler Racer A asked what I was doing.

I'm going to make myself a cup of tea.
Ohh. I love tea.
I'm not sure you've ever had tea.
Oh sure. I think I have. And I know I'd love it. What kind of tea is it?
Sleepytime tea.
Oh, I'm sure I'd love Sleepytime tea. Can I have some Sleepytime tea with you, Dad? Please? I really want some Sleepytime tea. Because I would really love it. I love Sleepytime tea, but I never had that tea before, but I'd love it.
Okay, I'll make you some Sleepytime tea. Do you want to smell it? (I hold out a tea bag and he takes a deep inhale).
Oh, I love that smell it smells so good. Yes, I want some Sleepytime tea too.

By this time the pleading for tea has attracted two-year-old Baby G, who is now at my feet.

I whun to smell tea too!! (He bobs his head in anticipation. I hold tea bag to his face, and he snorts out instead of breathing in, but still says Ahhhh.)

I drop two tea bags into two coffee cups and heat the water.

Is my tea done yet?  I have walked away from the cups and KNOW he must see I could not possibly have poured the tea.

No, the water is still heating. Soon.

I wait for the water to finish heating, pour our cups, and after a few more questions on whether his tea is done yet, our cups are finished steeping. I doctor his tea with milk and honey and take the cups to the table.

Even though the rule is food and drinks at the table, he decides he wants to walk around with the tea.

 I do not know why.

As soon as I finally get him situated at the table, Baby G adamantly begins insisting he wants tea, too. I get another cup, and pour half of A's cup into Baby G's. He tries to take the cup and walk around with it.

After a brief struggle which was initially seen as my attempt to steal his coveted cup of tea, I get Baby G to calm down and sit. He takes the cup, and on the first sip dribbles tea on his pajamas.

Nee halp.

I help him with his cup, but each sip dribbles, and I finally ask if I can put it into a sippy cup for him. He appears to agree, so I get a metal sippy into which I pour the lukewarm tea.

Tea!

I leave the two sitting at the table and go sit on the couch. After 20 to 30 seconds or so, I hear Baby G shrieking NOOOO! and turn to see him trying to take his brother's cup. MINE!!! MY TEA!!! MY CUP!!

I rush to the table where the two kids are wrestling with the single cup and attempt to explain to Baby G that has the sippy, but after seeing his brother with the cool adult-size coffee cup, Baby G must have a coffee cup, too. He has completely blocked out that he ever had a sippy. Sippy cup? Bahh. I want a cup of tea, man!

I decide to not go with logic, and instead get up and bring back the cup, pouring the contents of the sippy back into the cup.

He attempts to walk around with the cup.

I get him seated. He smiles. His brother smiles. Everyone is happy. They each have a half cup of tea, and their  own cup.

Later, after a lengthy explanation to Racer A on why my tea was not white and his was, both the kids finally go to sleep.

The cups are still on the table. They are both half full.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Photo of my Hot Wheels Lamborghini courtesy of Phil Pekarcik. The Lamborghini Reventón, by the way, is the most expensive Lamborghini road car costing around $1.5 mil and can run in excess of 210 mph.Without milk.

Week 43: Custom V-8 Vega

This week's blog, with its featured surreal, album cover photo design, is dedicated to imagination (with shoutouts to 4th of July fireworks, the 1970s and vinyl record albums).

Tonight I had a marathon imagination session with preschooler Racer A and 2-yr-old Baby G. As such sessions generally go, this one was unplanned.

As I was seated on the couch with my feet stretched out, Baby G climbed onto the ottoman, and looking down at my outstreched legs, asked, "How do I get down there?" (Translated from Baby G-eze -- original form more like, "Hauw I get dow-wun dair?")

His tone told me he wasn't looking for an actual answer, so I said, "Take the elevator."

"Oh!" he said, nodding, obviously satisfied with the answer. He climbed down, contained by each of my outstretched legs, and asked, "Hauwa I get up dair?"

"Push the button," I answered.

Baby G pushed an imaginary button which caused an elevator-going-up noise ending in my vocal interpretation of an elevator stopping and climbed out onto the ottoman. And repeated the process, complete with, "Hauw I get dow-wun dair?"

This went on for about four rounds before attracting Racer A (kids love elevators, after all).

"Can I ride the elevator?" he asked.

"Sure," I answered.

"Hey, Elevator, can you talk?"

My answer would steer the unfolding story. "Yes, I can," answered Elevator.

"Oh good. Can I go up?"

Racer A squeezed into the elevator, where Baby G was already standing. He pushed a button in the air, after which Baby G pushed another button. The elevator made its elevator noises.

The game expanded, each ride prefaced by a new question to Elevator from Racer A, such as Hey Elevator, do you have a family? (answer, Yes), and Hey Elevator, do you have any friends? (answer, Yes, Escalator).

Baby G now was also on a first name basis with the elevator, but generally kept to saying, "Ella baitor? Go do-wun?", obviously more concerned with the business of travel at hand and less about the Elevator's genealogy.

After a variety of discussions about escalators and elevators (for some reason, Elevator talked with a deeper voice than my own and Escalator talked with a higher voice) and after establishing Elevator had been made at the Otis factory by Bill and Cindy, Racer A asked what floors were the best.

As it turned out, there was a party on Floor 7 with pizza, but after stopping by, Racer A wanted something more exciting, so Elevator mentioned the big party on 11.

"With dancing?"

"With lots of dancing," answered Elevator.

"And good music?"

"Of course. And you get to pick your own." (Which meant more buttons to push.)

Both of the kids wanted a party, so they hit the massive dancefest on 11, which was super fun, but, as fate would have it, lacking in cake. Luckily, Floor 4 had a bakery, and, even more luckily, had a giant rainbow cake with sprinkles in stock. (Subsequent visits to the bakery saw Racer A purchase vanilla mint cookies and blueberry and cantelope* pies.)

The party was a huge success, and while this account has long since abandoned an attempt at brevity, I'll nonetheless omit the rest of the adventures with Elevator and instead leave it to your imagination.

I will, however, leave you with the dances, invented and named by Racer A, that were performed on the 11th Floor, first by Racer A, and quickly followed by Baby G.

• The Ice Cream Scooper
• The Stand Pit
• The Wave Arms
• The Guitar Ranch
• The Dandelion
• The Hammer Punch
• Big Tree
• The Twinkling Star

I have a feeling Elevator has now entered the imagination world of my kids as a recurring character.


But seriously, though.

You really should check out that party on 11.


*Earlier in the day on the car radio we heard the song "Time Bomb" by Rancid (Black coat, white shoes, black hat, Cadillac, yeah, the boy's a time bomb) and Adrian mistook Cadillac for cantelope.



Thanks to my mystery photographer and the inspiration, and even though I completely dropped my planned blog on 1970s vinyl, sometimes you just need to let loose and party.

Week 42: '67 Camaro

Doing something a tiny bit different this week, I'm beginning with the photo of my car, credited to photographer Phil Pekarcik. This awesome Hot Wheels has a hood that opens, and through the magic of Photoshop, Phil has given us an x-ray vision effect showing the engine under the hood. So cool.

The majority of tiny cars, now as was then, do not have hoods or trunks or doors that open, so when you get one that has these interactive pieces, they are even more special, because they are one step closer to a real car.

With my youngest son Baby G (now 2), however, such a vehicle would become a musical instrument*, an automotive castanet that would click click click with a wrist flip to an imagined salsa beat.

To Baby G everything is a musical instrument. He is a like a toddler Stomp.

Strangely, he never went for the low hanging fruit of pots and pans and wooden spoons, a classic of toddler percussion, preferring instead overturned boxes, crates and laundry baskets, played both by feet, hands and any striking object. He plays a mean set of paint cans, but his shampoo bottle on bathtub edge is pretty good, also.

I find it awesome how he releases the music in common items, from tape measures to books to whatever two items I hear him clacking together behind me in his seat while I'm driving, and if I've had to scoop away a couple of glass bottles before they cracked or take away a box of crackers before the contents were completely reduced to a crunchy coating for fish or chicken, for the most part I stay clear of his musical vision. 

That doesn't mean the noise, however rhythmic, doesn't get annoying. What changes everything for me, however, is his face, sometimes illuminated with a pure joyous smile, but other times completely lost in the moment and intent on catching the beat, his head tilted to one sound like he does, concentrating on laying down a consistent groove. I see that face, and my desire to yell "STOP THAT NOISE" goes away.

See, he may only be two, but he makes it very easy to tell when he is simply making noise and when he he making music. You can feel the difference. And music is good.

One of the most difficult challenges for me as a parent is coping with constant noise -- everything can be so loud, sometimes.. no, all the time. The banging, clanging, tapping, clapping, stomping of Baby G, however, is different. Like the sounds of the spring peepers and crickets at night, I'm glad they exist, however loud.

In a noisy world, those sounds are harmony.

* The actual Daddy's Tiny Car has not been used as a castanet as, not even by me.

Week 41: Ford Mustang Funny Car

I almost did not finish writing this blog post. You may not finish reading it.

Diversions lie ahead.

See, the car for this week's Daddy's Tiny Cars is a Mustang funny car, and I know what a funny car is because of a book I read as a kid.

Sometime in the 1970s I had a book -- I'm not sure if it was only about funny cars, about different types of race cars, or even about all kinds of things that happened to include funny cars, I just remember it was a soft cover book club book, probably Scholastic.

I began searching online with descriptors such as "funny cars" "1970s" "Scholastic Book Club," etc. hoping I might against the odds find that book. What I wasn't prepared for was the full tilt onslaught of nostalgia to hit me.

The first site I stumbled on was 70s-child.blogspot.com. That site alone almost sunk this post.

Page upon page of 1970s memories - such a great site. King Vitaman cereal! Dynamite magazine! Mikey! Awesome! Now what was I doing...? Yes, writing a blog... Must...look...away.... must...do...research...

After having completely forgotten my blog post, I came back to the present and reluctantly left 70s-child and continued searching, only to find these book covers on a 2008 posting on Boing-boing. No funny cars, but don't you know I once owned  three of these four books! Spooky Magic Tricks! I practiced those!

And so it went. On to another blog called Scar Stuff (a reference to a waxy, putty stuff from my youth used to make fake scars), which had pictures of my favorite Scholastic book and record, the Georgie the Ghost books, which then led me to seek out Scholastic monster movie books, such as those found on Rue-morgue.com. 

One book after another, I had that "I remember that!" moment, each time moving farther and farther away from funny cars.

Yes, the same guy who wrote Clifford the Big Red Dog. Yep, I had it.

Site after site of great blogs featuring pictures and references from books from my childhood. This Flickr collection from Brent Cox featured a book called The Forgotten Door, which I had actually forgotten, at least the name of it. Man, I loved that story.

I had read a lot more than I had thought.

Some twenty or thirty sites later I wound up on the website for Ohio's Loganberry Books which features a Stump the Bookseller section. Instead of helping me with my funny car book, it became a trivia game as a read through questions to see if I remembered any of the books.

Lester del Rey's Runnaway Robot? I read that! Which got me thinking of other Lester del Rey sci-fi books I had checked out of the library, but couldn't remember. 

I HAD to look them up. I had to know. 

YES! Tunnel Through Time, Day of the Giants, The Infinite Worlds of Maybe, and so on. But alas, no funny car book.

My research was incomplete, the day was finished, my head was happily filled with 1970s illustrations and book covers, and I had unable to find the elusive book.

 In fact, I didn't even remember what my original theme was to have been. 

What I did remember, however, was the faceless traveler from the book below! 

My ramblings into youthful book memories don't do justice to the great photo of the funny car shot by Phil Pekarcik. You know that isn't even a diecast of a 1970s funny car! *sigh*

Guest Blog: Pillow Fights and Toxic Derivatives

Today's guest blog is from friend and writer Les Evey, who frequently stops by and plays with the kids.

Because this is Daddy's Tiny Cars, I felt obligated to provide a diecast picture, so the above cellphone-shot picture is of two of my surviving Matchbox cars from my childhood -- these are old, with the "MADE IN ENGLAND BY LESNEY" stamps on the bottom. 

You see, Les and I have known each other a long time.

Additionally, Les and I often have differing political views (hence the opposing colors of red and green). I'll let you guess whether I'm the green car or the red truck. 

Pillow Fights and Toxic Derivatives -

One of the better shows on the mortgage crisis was House of Cards on CNBC.  I remember an interviewee explain how people could keep trading derivatives even though they knew they would have to blow up.  He said it was like being at a party and you know you should leave, but you’re still having a good time.  I think he summed up a profound aspect of human behavior that applies to a lot of situations.

I was over at Dale’s the other night and it’s not unusual for him and his wife to leave me with their kids while they finish work, cook dinner, or perform other household activities.  I have no problem with this.  I love playing with his kids and, judging from the way the children jump up and down and joyously scream my name when I step in the door, they like playing with me, too.

Over the course of the next hour, a pillow fight ensued.  A pillow fight has simple enough rules of engagement that three kids, aged 2, 4, and 11, can understand and participate in.  OK, and there was another kid in his late 40’s.

Note that I am probably responsible for teaching Dale’s kids to pillow fight, not that any kid really needs instruction on hitting a sibling with anything.  Dale once recounted a tale to me when Racer-A was two.  Racer-A handed him a pillow and spoke at great length in two-year-old jibber jabber while demonstrating the correct way to swing the pillow.  He was instructing Dale on how to pillow fight.  This, of course, happened soon after a weekend that I had visited.  Racer-A’s actions were understandable based on his observations:

1)      Pillow fighting is fun.

2)      Dad did not pillow fight.

Q.E.D.  Dad did not know how to pillow fight and needed to be taught so he could have fun, too.

Not too long ago, Dale was calmly reading while sitting on the couch when a near two-year-old Baby-G stealthily approached and hit him with a pillow.  This also occurred soon after Baby-G received my lessons in the art, style, and fun of pillow fighting.  By the way, Baby-G has a surprisingly good pillow arm.  You have been warned.

The battle royale pillow fight of this evening had continued well into fifteen minutes when a signal had gone off in my head.  We were on borrowed time.  We had passed the point of safety and the play would get crazier and more careless until the inevitable injury.  Generally, an injury in any playing festivity is the signal that the game is over, like the bell at the end of a boxing round.  Still, I let the borrowed time clock count on in my head.  Tick, tick, tick.  We were all still having a good time.  Tick, tick, tick.  My apprehension was growing as the clock ticked on.  I began searching for a stopping point.  You can’t just stop a pillow fight at any moment.  That’s stupid.  And rude.  Only Mom is allowed to do that.  Tick, tick, tick.  And we were all still having a good time.

Well, I’m proud to announce that a moment came where no one was in the middle of a swing or planning his next shot.  I called “All done!”, the general announcement that the current activity was concluded.  To my amazement, everyone followed my lead, put down their pillows, and commenced to finding another activity.

Yes.  I overcame the natural human tendency to take things too far while having fun.  One or more of the children will experience one less childhood injury.  OK, the pillow fight probably wouldn’t have happened without my presence, but who’s to say they wouldn’t have done something equally reckless.  And that’s not important, anyway.  What is important is the increased probability that, when he least suspects it, Dale will be peacefully reading or watching TV, and be struck with a pillow.

The featured cars are a Ford Pick-UP, Matchbox Series No 6, and a Ford Zodiac MK IV, Matchbox Series No 53. The Zodiac once had an articulated hood and a spare tire that fit under the hood, but both are long gone.

It's not too often you actually lose a spare tire with age. Wouldn't you agree, Les?