They say you only regret the things you don’t do. That may be true up to a point (who am I to argue with “they”, after all?) but there are some things I’ve never done that I don’t regret at all. It’s good to try new things, but there are some new things I can pretty much determine with no ambiguity whatsoever that I won’t ever enjoy doing (and never would have).
Going to the prom
Watching reality shows
Hunting and/or fishing
Playing little league
Living in Florida
Voting for a Republican presidential candidate
Going to the ballet or the opera
Reading Atlas Shrugged
Nothing really wrong with most of these things, per se. I just know they’re not my cup of tea, and don’t feel the need to waste time on them.
Almost nine years ago, the ex and I did a road trip to Charleston and Pittsburgh that ultimately had lots of implications, but for now, I’ll just mention that we took what was always my favorite “couple photo” on this trip, at a waterfall by the side of Highway 60 somewhere near Gauley Bridge, West Virginia. I’ve been threatening to do another weekend in Charleston ever since, and this was finally that weekend.
More pictures to follow, but yesterday, I happened to take that same back road home because I wanted to shoot a couple of old Kroger stores along the way (and because I fucking hate that stretch of the West Virginia Turnpike between Beckley and Charelston), and I happened upon that same waterfall. I thought it was time for a new photo. I think I’ve held up pretty well over the years. Almost no evidence at all of decomposition…
And for the record, I found a new waterfall I like even better, because the nature is kept at bay by the pair of creepy old buildings adjacent to it.
Again, more pictures and thoughts on Charleston to follow…
I bought my first car in 1980 and I ended up driving it for about five years. Apparently, that seemed like a good amount of time for me to hang on to a car, because it’s become my average over the past thirty-seven years. I’ve had seven cars since 1980. (Actually I’ve owned ten cars, but three don’t count: the one I totaled a week after purchasing in 1992, the one my ex signed over to me so I could dispose of it in 2011, and the one I inherited from my dad and quickly sold in 2013.) The only time I was ever completely without a car was for about six months in 1996 and 1997 in San Francisco.
Of the seven that count, two died very violent deaths, one in a collision and one in a fire. All but one of the others I pretty much dove until they either died or would no longer pass inspection. I actually bought and paid for four of them and assumed custody of three from my mom. One of those I acquired from her, a 2009 Sonata, turned out to be the best car I ever owned. I haven’t actually bought a car myself since 1997, when I bought the Toyota I owned longer than any of the others. And I only ever bought one brand new; it turned out to be one of the worst of the bunch. The rest I bought used.
So yesterday, I bought car number eight. It’s a very slightly used 2017 Sonata. it’s pretty and roomy and has Apple Car Play and all sorts of fun things. I thought it might be nice to buy one before I had to for a change. It’s also the first car I’ve ever paid cash for. I’m hoping we’ll have a lovely relationship. In much the same way I no longer stay at Motel 6, I have also decided I’m allowed to have a slightly more comfortable car now. I’m never going to be a spendthrift (I spent way too long being way too poor) and I don’t care about high-end luxury, but I can afford to part with a little money at this point in my life.
An exciting slideshow of my history with cars follows:
So it was thirty years ago tonight that the legendary Pterodactyl Club in Charlotte opened. Damn.
That was also the night that I felt I really started making friends in Charlotte after a long and lonely first winter there. I ran into an acquaintance I’d known in Myrtle Beach at the opening and she introduced me to a whole new crowd that quickly became my crowd.
I miss that old run-down steakhouse on Freedom Drive. I saw some great bands there (everything from the Flaming Lips to They Might Be Giants to Iggy Pop, among others) plus the DJ nights were a very welcome alternative to the never-ending cycle of annoying disco and drag at the queer bar a few blocks down the street. As someone who even then really didn’t love gay clubs–and especially hated the shitty music one was forced to endure in them–this was a pretty important spot for me. it was also a passably good place to pick up boys of a sort who were also not as annoying as the ones at the queer bar.
Side note: The grand opening flyer I scanned so a friend could put it on his blog a few years ago must be the only remaining copy in the universe, based on how often I’ve seen it floating around the web.
The Pterodactyl is now a grassy field in a rapidly gentrifying area. At least there’s not an artisanal grits and okra bar there yet…
One night in 1996, I picked up a very adorable boy at a bar in Sacramento (the Wreck Room, I believe) and we went back to his flat a few blocks away. All night long, we made out to the sounds of Ella Fitzgerald, which made me like that adorable boy even more.
The next morning, as I was driving back to my room at the Motel 6 or wherever, I heard on the radio that Ella had died the previous night while we were curled up in bed listening to her. It made me very sad. I never heard from the boy again either, which also made me sad.
I loved Ella even as a child, and I have very sketchy memories of seeing her on the Ed Sullivan Show when I was really young (maybe this one?). In that proverbial game of dead celebrities you’d like to have at a dinner party, she makes my list every time.