Hooligans!

Editor's Note: Commedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm. Want a chance to respond to this column? Go to Pam’s blog at www.tryondailybulletin.com.
I caught myself the other day, after seeing a couple of battered mailboxes lying in the street, uttering the word that plants me firmly in what I call the "old fa**" phase of my life:
"Hooligans!"
The horror of it all. And if that's not bad enough, as I was hacking my young horse down the shoulder of my normally quiet country lane, I yelled at an approaching speeding, truck, "Hey! SLOW DOWN! There's kids on this road, pal!"
It's just a matter of time before I'm standing, shotgun loaded, in the middle of my property yelling at passersby to "Get the hell off my land!"
What's happening and how did it sneak up on me? To quote Albert Brooks from the film, Lost in America: " I used to be hip, honest!" Really. Not that many years ago, I could have told you every band that played on every alternative station in the country. My buddies and I eschewed anything that smacked of "trend" and frequented only the most secretive clubs. Our normal hang out was "The Central," in Los Angeles: a dingy, hazy, bar one reached by descending a narrow, dank, stairwell which we had to abandon in disgust after learning it had been bought by Johnny Depp, renamed "The Viper Room" and gained notoriety as being the celebrity hangout where River Phoenix overdosed in the parking lot on a lethal combination of drugs.
Breakfast was occasionally taken weekdays (never weekends, too many tourists) at Duke's on Sunset, elbowing in at a back table, sharing a ketchup bottle with the likes of Tom Waites or the hung over drummer from the Ramones. No one spoke. No one hit up anyone for autographs... there seemed to be a mutually respected, shared, bond of conduct.
So, what happened? I certainly didn't have kids, thus there has been no moral obligation to set a "good example," and I certainly haven't left my progressive sense of politics. It is possible, however, that I am simply weary of man's continual unkindness towards his fellow man. Whether it be the unfathomable cruelty behind the bombings in Iraq, the misery that is Darfur, the greed behind sub prime lenders, or the blatant disregard for the health of children and pets in exchange for our frenzied pursuit of "Everyday Low Prices," I've just had it. I'm tired of mindless violence, even if it's by a couple of bored sixteen year olds cruising back country roads at night looking for a bit of mischief. I certainly egged a house of two in my early teens. I wasn't even angry at the family: I simply joined in with the other kids because it was dark, our parents were out, and the sense of danger was intoxicating.
I just want things to slow down. I want people to be kind and respect each other's opinions. I want people to stop throwing their cigarette butts out of the car window. I used to say I wanted things to be the way they were back in the "good old days" of the 1940s and 50s until a friend of mine pointed out that during those "good old days" he was prohibited from being served at a lunch counter. So, now, to confound things, I'm realizing that there never really have been any "good old days" for every group of people.
Oh, well. If I retained one thing from my three years of college it's this: "For every action there is a reaction." There's not a reason in the world I can't walk up to the house with the battered mailbox and enquire if they'd like help in repairing it.
Hooligans.

Rats!!

Editor's Note: Commedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm. Want a chance to respond to this column? Go to Pam’s blog at www.tryondailybulletin.com.

Paul and I are fortunate enough to have "Depression era," European, parents who have always warned, "If you can't buy it with cash, then you shouldn't buy it."

'Nuff said. With the exception of a mortgage, I try my very best not to finance anything. Even in a High School economics class, we were shown how many thousands of dollars more a car costs when you finance it instead of paying for it upfront. Later on I learned that a new car depreciates nearly 30% the moment you drive it off the car lot. Truthfully, I've never owned a new car in my life. And I always pay cash.

I say all of this to give myself some sort of self-righteous superiority while admitting that, therefore, it's a big deal if Paul and I are driving a car that was manufactured in the same decade in which we are actually living. Right now, our newest car is a 1998 Honda. It looks quite good: no dings, a few scratch marks from Bonnie and Rosie leaping against the driver's door (wretched curs) and just a little sap from parking under the Pin Oak trees. Having just turned 140,000 miles, we figure we've easily another 60,000 miles before we have any sort of trouble. The fact that we live four miles from town and, frankly, never go anywhere, means the odometer will turn 200,000 miles in the spring of 2018. We can rest easy in the reliability of our little car.

Or so we thought.

Driving my mother back from a recent doctor's appointment, I noticed the air conditioning wasn't as effective as usual. There also seemed to be a weird vibration occurring when I depressed the accelerator as it labored up hills. I met Paul at home with the awful news: "Pepe is unwell."

Yes, Pepe. Well, don't you name your car? Our others are Arnold, the dually, and Sammy, my beloved 1992 Isuzu Trooper that has been parked near where the woods skirt our property for around two years, now. We named Sammy after our favorite Thai restaurant in Los Angeles. The employees always picked up the phone with such exuberance when we called to place an order for delivery: "Hello, Sammyyyyyyyyy's!"
This flourish, naturally, was aped by both Paul and I when we would discuss what we wanted for dinner: "Do you want Greek, sushi, or should we call Sammyyyyyyy's?" And even though the Trooper is Japanese and not Thai, it just seemed to fit. It's a blessing we don't have children. We might have named our first, Subway.

So Pepe, after a fruitless administration of cold compresses and Vick's Vapo Rub, was admitted to Stott's Garage overnight, for observation. The list of potential problems plagued our sleep: "Transmission, timing belt, valve job........." Any unexpected cost also means Paul has to put off getting a new table saw, again, until next month.

At 8 a.m. sharp, the phone jangled. Paul and I eyed each other nervously. Surely they would have called during the night, if..... if......

Paul snapped up the receiver barked into it several times before slamming it down and rushing out of the room.

"What is it? What is it?!" I cried.

"Wrong phone!" he yelled from his office. "It's my cell phone that's ringing."

Connecting just in time with Stott's, we were given the unexpected news. It wasn't the transmission, timing belt or valves.

It was a rat nest.

Rats, not mice, but rats, had built the equivalent to Trump Tower beneath the water pump. Evidently, another rat had begun an offshoot to White Oak Plantation near the fan belt. Well, you know Polk County: they'll approve anything. I'm terrified their next move will be to annex Sammy.

So all's well that ends well. And I can't really blame the rats. We love Pepe, too.