Thursday, October 23, 2014
You Really Should Get an Alfa
I have had my Alfa Romeo Spider for about 5 or 6
months now. It was an impulse buy. I had only seen the car for about 30 minutes
before I slapped down the cash. It literally only took that long, and one short
test drive, to fall in love with this quirky little Italian. It is a perfect
car. The all aluminum engine is so elegant and smooth that you would think it
was running on melted velvet rather than gasoline and it has a million miles of
headroom. There is an exhaust leak somewhere that makes it pop and burble on
the over-run (which I love) and the wooden steering wheel is so delicate, perfectly proportioned, and
deeply dished that I’m positive that if you boiled it down and drank it you
would turn into a beautiful dark haired woman on a Vespa. Not to mention it is
the last car that Battista "Pinin" Farina
designed, so of course it is gorgeous, if not a little oddly shaped. My car is
not, by any means, a show car. It has tears in the seats and the paint has seen
better days, but who cares right? It is such a joy to drive. I don’t think it
should even be called it a “car”; it should be called a “Converts gasoline into
Italian charm” machine. And no, you philistine, it is not as fast as your
wife’s Mazda 3, but that is really not the point of this car is it? Of course
being Italian it has a few quirks, which those of you with a more rational
mindset might find maddening. The turn signal stalk and the stalk that turns on
the lights somehow, physics be dammed, manages to occupy the same space at the
same time, so every time you turn a corner you end up flashing your lights. The
trunk release leaver is in the doorsill and the doors, trunk, ignition, and
glove box all have a different key (from the factory). There are four
lights on the dash surrounding some gauges. 2 red, 1 green and 1 blue. They indicate
low fuel pressure, low oil pressure, lights on, and parking brake on/low brake
fluid respectively. Simple enough right? Thing is though, these lights are
completely un-labeled. It is sort of like they had the intern just grab a
handful of switches and gauges and throw them at the clay model and wherever
they landed, that’s where they were going. It doesn’t get much more Italian
that that. All this just adds up to more charm though. It gives you the feeling
that getting an espresso is more important that getting your taxes done. The
engine is not only smooth running but it is so good-looking, with the Alfa
Romeo script stamped into the black matte cam covers, and the Italian labels
(OLIO on the oil cap for example) that it is literally calming to look at. It’s
no wonder they used the same engine from 1966-1994 (which as a bonus makes
parts easy to find). Should you get one? Of course you should, unless you don’t
like having fun. My experience with this car has been nothing but joy. I think
I might be a secret Italian. And really, aren’t we all? Anyway, I need to go
mop up the oil it is leaking, but hey if its not leaking its not full right? Ciao!
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
We Got Some Chickens
Well, I got some chickens. I do not
live in the country, I don’t have a lot of land, and I never thought in my
entire life that I would ever, EVER, own chickens. But here I am, with
chickens. I guess you should never say never right? I’m still not really sure
how it happened. One minute I’m a happy city dweller, the next I’m an urban
farmer. It was my wife Rachel, I believe, that had said something about keeping
backyard chickens after reading an article in Sunset or some other pseudo
trendy magazine, and then I think I found an article about the manliness and
heritage of keeping them. (I’m a sucker for that kind of stuff) Either way, I
now have three.
We both decided to build a chicken
coop instead of getting each other some cheesy gift for our fourth wedding
anniversary and shortly after that construction on our coop started in early
July. Off I went to the Home Depot to get some wood, screws and other materials
and off Rachel went to a feed store off of 4th street to get us
three little baby chicks. We were doing this. As I came home with a collection
of 2x4s, 4x4s, and plywood strapped to the roof rack of my old Volvo, my wife
arrived home with a small, brown paper bag. “What’s in the bag?” I said as she
was getting out of her car. “Baby chicks!” she replied with equal parts
triumphant enthusiasm and wavering confidence. “Really?” I said, “they just
give them to you in a brown paper bag?” “Apparently.” she replied, as perplexed
as I was. I pondered the irony that newly hatched baby chicks come in the same
plain brown paper bag that they leave the butcher shop in. But you know what?
Now that I think about it, how else would they come? After much thought, and
with many names thrown out such as ‘Laura Egg-ls Wilder’, ‘Goldie Hen’, and further
painful amalgamations, we decided on Coco, Zelda, and Isadora; Chanel,
Fitzgerald, and Duncan respectively. (Famous flappers, get it?!?!) I am
currently in the process of making Isadora a long flowing scarf…
So now we
had our chicks. They were happily growing in our guest bathroom’s bathtub under
a 125-watt heat lamp. Which meant I had to get started on the coop. Being a
modern American, or perhaps just being a modern man, I have this sickness where
I take a simple problem, (build a small and functional backyard chicken coop)
and design an overly complex solution to said problem, (Design New Mexico’s own
chicken Taj Mahaal.) And damned if I don’t have the nicest chicken coop in the
greater Mesa Antigua neighborhood, albeit the only chicken coop in our
neighborhood.
Now that the
chicks were happily growing into teenage chickendome in our bathtub, and the
coop-mahaal ready to go, the only thing left to worry about was our dogs, Annie
and Enzo. Like most of you, our dogs are an extension of our family. We love
them to death. Annie is part Border terrier, part whatever else. And Enzo is,
well, we have no Idea what he is. “A fourth
generation Mutt,” is what I call him. He’s a 60lb sack of cuddles. Even our vet
is stumped, every time we see her she says, “I just have no idea.” These two
have been baffled since they day the chicks arrived. Normally sweet and
good-natured, the arrival of the chicks flipped some sort of primeval switch in
their brains. They spent hours pining at the bathroom door, pleading for “just
one taste”. Infatuated with the noises coming from beyond the void. They would
be at the bathroom door when I left for work and be at the bathroom door when I
returned. Never ceasing to monitor the unwanted, and probably tasty,
interlopers in their home.
One night we were having a fire in
our backyard fire pit, about one to two weeks into our chicken adventure. (At
this point the chicks were still in the towel-and-newspaper lined bathtub) We
heard a high-pitched shriek coming from the other side of the yard. A shriek
that was reminiscent of how a baby chick might sound if an Enzo had one in his
mouth. We both bolted up from our chairs and ran to investigate. Our fears had
been confirmed. Here was Enzo, ears back with a look of shame and guilt on his
face, a foot or two in front of him lying on the grass was our beloved Coco.
Understandably my wife and I were very upset, we had not closed the bathroom
door quite enough and Enzo, being the opportunist that he is, saw his chance
and took it. Now we had a lifeless little chick. I scooped her mangled body up
in my hands and smoothed her feathers. “Chirp” we heard the little chick say.
We were stunned, couldn’t believe it, this chirp soon found its way to a
full-blown wail. The poor little chick was dazed but totally fine. Coco is the
luckiest bird alive.
About a week later I got a knock on
the door and answered to find my neighbor, Cindy with something wrapped up in a
towel, held tightly to her chest. I immediately feared the worst. The look on
Cindy’s face was one of gravity. “I found her in our backyard,” she said “the
cat had her.” Coco had gotten out of the coup somehow and over the wall into
our neighbors yard. How she did this at 4 weeks old I have not a clue. Our
neighbors have 3 LARGE dogs and two very mischievous cats. I don’t think I
would have survived jumping the wall. I took the towel and unwrapped it
expecting a tragedy. As I peeled back the top layer of towel Coco’s head popped
out and she was looking around. After a thorough examination we realized that
Coco was unharmed. Luckiest. Bird. Ever.
I love my little lady lumps.
(That’s what I call the chickens) If you were ever thinking about getting a
coup and some chickens here is my advice, DO IT. They are sort of hilarious and
they are a ton of fun. They are low maintenance, and they actually earn their
keep with eggs. They produce garden compost and are prolific bug hunters. Albuquerque is really very progressive in the
area of backyard livestock; most cities don’t allow it at all. Take advantage
of it and have a chicken adventure!
Friday, November 22, 2013
A Short But Accurate Day in the Life of a 4th Grader in Ohio, Circa 1972
About me, By Carroll Owen.
My name is Carroll, with two R’s and two L’s. Not like the
girls’ name, which only has one R and one L. I don’t really like my name
because my uncles wife is also name Carol, (on my dads side) and she smells
like Pall-Malls. There is also this girl in my class (also named carol) who,
I’m almost positive, has the worst breath in the whole world. My dad says “If
you’re going to make a name for yourself you’d better have a good name to begin
with!” I don’t think it’s a good name because it’s a girls name even with the
extra R’s and L’s, and I’m not a girl. My dad says there are plenty of famous
men named Carroll, but I can only think of three. Carroll O’Conner who played
Archie in the old re-runs we watch on Friday nights, Carroll Spinney, the guy
who plays big bird on TV, (I see his name in the credits). and Carroll Shelby,
who does something with cars. That’s who I was named after. My dad calls him a
great American hero. He was a race car driver I think. There is also Carol King
who I thought was a boy from her picture on the cover of my mom’s old albums
but she’s not. My mom doesn’t know I look at them when she’s out to the store,
and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell her. My dad likes cars. In fact
he likes them so much he sells them. Sometimes my dad will pick me up from
school and let me sit in his chair as he waits for customers out front. I like
to pretend I’m in charge and everyone has to answer to me and no one can make
fun of my name because if they do they are going to get shit-canned. (my uncle
frank says that a lot, I don’t know what it means) If my parents wanted to name
me after a great American hero why couldn’t they have picked someone with a
cooler name like Columbus or Clark Kent? I think I will name my kid Columbus.
We live in a house with three rooms and a kitchen and two bathrooms. I like it.
Some of my friends have bigger houses, and I wish we could too, that way I
could get a dog. My mom says we don’t have room for one. My mom also says I
should be a doctor or a lawyer but I don’t really like my doctor very much, he
smells like beef stew, so I don’t think I will be one. I would rather be a
garbage man because I think it would be fun to ride on the back of a truck. My
mom gets mad when I say that though so I just tell her I want to be a lawyer.
The End
“Carroll,”
The teacher said in front of the class, “can I talk to you at my desk for a
second.”
“Um, sure.” Said
Carroll. It’s only the second day of fourth grade and I’m already in trouble,
he thought to himself
“Carroll,” said Ms. Clark as he neared her desk, ”its about
your essay. You can’t use language like shit-canned in my class.”
Ms. Clark lived alone in her
3-bedroom farmhouse out on Idalia road. It was her fathers and her grandfathers
before that. She was never married and inherited the house and the 22 acre
parcel where it sat, bordering the McKinney soybean Farm. They had offered to
buy the land and the house many times to which she always replied, “not
interested.” Even as year after year the price went up. She could not bear the
thought of the house being torn down and an equipment shed being put up in its
place. She felt home there. She felt, somehow, not alone. The three generations
of her family that had lived there showed their presence in the well-worn
kitchen counter, for which countless cabbages and potatoes had been cut and
family meals prepared for hungry stomachs. In the marks at which every year on
Easter Sunday, her father lined her and her 4 sisters up and marked their
height against the banister. In the squeaky gate which her father had meant to
fix but just never got around to it and then forgot about all together. All her
sisters had grown and married except Ms. Clark. And but for the grace of god
she would never get married herself and never have children of her own. That’s
why she became a schoolteacher. And she loved each and every child as though
they were her own. She did not own any cats.
The students in
Ms. Clark’s 4th grade class were to write a short essay on themselves
and their families for their first nights homework. Something she always did,
though the kids hated it saying things like, “homework on the first day! How dreadful.”
And “this Ms. Clark is really a chops buster!” She just liked to get to know a
little about her kids so she could tailor her lessons to help them a little
better. It was also, however subconsciously, a way for her to feel better about
her own situation. Kids will always tell you what the parents don’t want you to
know. And after 23 years of teaching at Lincoln Elementary she had convinced
herself that it might be, after all, easier and more pleasant to be alone.
“I’m sorry Ms. Clark.” Said Carroll. “My uncle says he has
to shit-can people all the time. Every day even.”
“Well, in our class we only use language we would use in
front of our mothers.”
“Ok, but, my uncle says that in front of my mother all the
time. I wont use it anymore anyway”
Frank Morgan was Carroll’s uncle, married to his mother’s
sister. He owns a shipping corporation that uses the lakes and canals in and
around Lake Erie and Lake Michigan to ship any number of goods and supplies
from lumber to grain anywhere in the great lakes region. He was a wealthy man;
a fact that he doesn’t necessarily bring up and at the same time doesn’t let
any one forget. He lives in Ottawa Hills just outside of Toledo, which was
about 51 miles away as the crow flies, in a grand old Eastlake Victorian, which
he had redone to the most modern specifications he could without ruining the
grandeur of the old estate. He was
frequently in town due to the port being in north Sandusky and often took
Carroll out for ice cream in one of the big Cadillac’s he was so fond of.
“Nothing like American steel.” He would tell Carroll as they drove down the
road to Millie’s Ice cream parlor. Carroll’s grandmother used to tell him that
you can judge a man by his watch and his shoes.
Frank had a much nicer watch than his father.
“Thank you. Back to your desk please.” Said Ms. Clark.
However hard she tried not to, Ms. Clark had her favorites.
And Carroll, she thought to herself, might just be one of them for this year.
Carroll had gone to the Our Lady of
Peace Catholic School for the last two years upon his mothers urging. Private
schools were all the rage and not wanting her son to be left out, but more
precisely wanting something to brag about to Jenny down the street who’s kids
have gone to private schools since kindergarten, she sent Carroll off. He spent
second and third grade under the strict monarchy of catholic nuns, often with
bruised knuckles from rulers and sore fingers from the punishment of having to
copy word for word entire pages out of the bible. Punishments which were
administered for some great sins as absolutely innocent as dropping pebbles in
a puddle to watch the ripples. It was just enough time for young Carroll’s self esteem and view of God
and religion to be so horribly skewed that at the young age of eight he was
thinking of being an atheist, or in his words possibly… “Jewish so I can work in Hollywood.”
Catholic School was a terrible place, a place like hell, except they preach that to you every day. The irony is they are trying to prevent hell by promising it. Carroll was transferred back to Lincoln Elementary at the beginning of his fourth grade year, so he didn’t have many, if any, friends that he remembered.
Catholic School was a terrible place, a place like hell, except they preach that to you every day. The irony is they are trying to prevent hell by promising it. Carroll was transferred back to Lincoln Elementary at the beginning of his fourth grade year, so he didn’t have many, if any, friends that he remembered.
As recesses and lunches came and
went, Carroll sat by himself eating the Peanut butter and Jelly sandwich his
mom packed him. It was always hard for him to make friends, which was odd
because he was so easy to talk to. One Tuesday about two weeks into the school
year, after he had eaten his soggy bottomed PB&J sandwich and was moving on
to the animal crackers in a fold-top plastic sack, another boy came over from
his class and sat down in front of him at the stationary picnic tables in the
west of the schoolyard.
“Hi.”
He said tentatively.
“Hi.”
Said Carroll almost with too much enthusiasm.
“A
bunch of the other boys are going to go play kick ball behind the library, you
want come?”
“Sure.”
Said Carroll, and he promptly offered him a hippo from his sack of animal
crackers, the choicest of all the animals.
“I’m
Ryan, I’m in your class.”
“I’m
Carroll, with two R’s and two L’s.”
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
This really is terrible. Am I a bad person?
Teenagers. They are just terrible aren’t they? If you are,
right now, currently plagued by being a teenager, I have some news for you.
Nobody likes you. Not even your parents. (maybe a little bit your parents) Who
among you has ever met a teenager and thought, “wow, his insight and intellect
just blew me away?” I see maybe one hand. Teenager=prick, its just the truth, I
don’t care if you’re the nicest teenager ever, you’re a pick. Hell, teenagers
don’t even like teenagers. Its ok, I was a prick too, we all were. I think you
might need to be a prick during those years. Maybe it allows you to emerge,
like a butterfly if you will, into the land of the useful. The teenage years
are sort of an “adulthood trial run”. You’re given a little room to make some
decisions. If you get them right, good job! If not, well, you’re an idiot
teenager. Sometimes the decisions are much larger than any teenager should ever
be expected to make, most of the time they are trivial. You think you’re an adult and can make
rational, mindful life decisions but its not until you actually are an adult
that you realize, “I was a colossal narrow minded cock for the better part of 9
years.” (I’m counting 21 and under as teenager) the problem happens when you emerge
from of the cauldron of teenagedom physically but not mentally. Sadly this
happens more often than not. Why does this happen you ask? I don’t know, I’m
blaming Obama, but really something needs to happen. I think I have a solution.
We need to keep a constant reminder in front of our teenagers that they
actually are terrible human beings and they have a lot of work ahead of them
before they will be accepted members of society. Right this very moment, as I
am typing these words, a youth is walking past our backyard singing as loud as
she can. “She’s just being young!” you say, “Let her enjoy herself!”. Here is
the thing, she is a terrible singer. Horrible. It sounds like what I imagine a
wood chipper would sound like if you were feeding a steady stream of feral cats
through it’s business end. Now see, nobody will ever put there foot down and
say, “sweetheart, I love you but your singing sounds like pigs humping.” She is
going to be one of those awful people on Americas Got Idols or whatever who are
just atrociously bad singers but they don’t know it, just completely
delusional. When she’s singing at the auditions she thinks “dayumn. Whitney
better watch out” when everyone else just thinks, “how did her parents let this
happen?” Humiliation is the key to the success of your children and this
country. Humiliate your kids daily! All this “you can be anything you want to
be” junk is ridiculous. Your son is not going to be a doctor, his thumbs barely
oppose. I think it should be “you can be anything you want to be, within
reason.”
Monday, March 4, 2013
Do or Do Not
I have recently come to the conclusion that life should be
lived with dignity. This sounds like a no brainer. You might say, “of course it
should be. Everyone knows that.” But why then do we constantly accept the
status quo and settle for the lives we don’t want? Are we not stripping
ourselves of the dignity we deserve by not doing the best we can at all times?
The answer is risk. It’s risky to put yourself out there. Here is how Paul Arden puts it. “Risks are a
measure of people. People who don’t take them are trying to preserve what they
have.” If you are unhappy with the way your life is going why would you want to
preserve what you have? Here is the thing though; people who do take risks
often end up having more. The other
thing is that people are afraid to make mistakes. But I give you these words,
without being too cliché, from Benjamin Franklin; “ I haven’t failed, I have
had 10,000 ideas that didn’t work.” What successful people realize is that
failures preconditions to success. False starts are rungs of the ladder. One
important thing to note is that success does not equal money. Success equals
Living a life with dignity and respect for your self and earning respect from
your community. Wealth is often a side effect of this. Another thing to note is
that When Ben Franklin said this; he didn’t just have the ideas. He went after
them and found out first hand for himself that they would not work. You could
have all the ideas in the world but if you don’t set out after them it doesn’t
do you one bit of good.
I started MC[Squared] Graphic Design back in February of
last year. It didn’t work out as planned. I have plenty of excuses as to why
not but the reality is that I half-assed it. I was working part time for the
paint store and part time for myself. I was lazy, and as much as it pains me to
say it, I was not diligent in my efforts. It is no other fault but mine why it
didn’t work. In the immortal words of Ron Swanson (or at least the words of
whoever writes his lines) “Why half-ass two things when you can whole-ass one
thing?” One thing I have noticed about successful people is that they chose a
path and they stick with it. They do one thing and they do it well and
diligently. They make it work. They are not constantly looking for something
bigger and better to come along. They are the architects of their own lives.
This is the type of man I want to be and the first step to that end is
realizing my own faults, way to many too many to list, and go about changing
those faults one at a time.
The vision of where you want to be is one of the greatest
assets you have. So here is where I want to be. I want to own a multifaceted
creative "commons". I want it to be boundless. I want to do everything from
furniture design to commercials, logo design and branding to social media
management and creative integration. I want it to be a space where my employees
can feel free to be as creative as they possibly can and where failure is
encouraged as a means to success. I want to create something bold. A place
where clients know they can come and get spectacular results for whatever their
needs are. The only way to get there is to start at the bottom and make it
work. As Yoda says, “Do or do not. There is no try.” And he’s right. There is
no try.
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