21 July 2012


Have I shoved this latest Ken Block wheelie freak-out in here, or just in my Facebook which has overtaken my blog for the true test of temperatures and times.

The man has crazy skills, and clearly crazy contacts because for whom else would they close the place down.

One snotty-nosed kid to sneak out the backyard to see what's going on ... round comes Ken sideways in a cloud of dust ... all they'd find would be a splodge of snot on a pot plant.


In re the Sinbadian comments, I'm not quite sure what he means, seeing as how this post celebrates that big bad bully boy of the handbrake drift, Kenny Block.

But I try to save everyone's time by providing instant links where referenced.

  • The flickr snap is of some unassuming chariot.

  • The link to his excellent Rue Demo blog is more of the same, boasting how he got rid of the jalopy and has lived happily ever after in Hellas toting his own bale and advising Carrie on how to bend correctly at the knees when lifting the heavier stuff.

    Madeleine MG Moment ~ what they say about grieving taking its time is clearly true because more n more often I'm having these lightning moments when everything swoops back.

    The Rubber Band - I went to my foto collection to find some snarky pic with which to ridicule Sinber's moto-divorce and just clicked on the one of me standing next to my P&J in Port Townsend. Having positioned right, I went to 'view' to check that it conveyed the right tone of Lord Snooty at play and wham! Almost sent me careering backwards off my chair with the sheer concentrated memory.

    I was just divorced and living on Bainbridge Isle with money enough not to worry. I remember exactly where I was 'in my head', to use an americanism.

  • Small swinging dick at Amazon, surrounded by best mates who mocked my Terry Thomas accent and guitar picking pals who couldnt quite understand how i picked so good with such perfectly pronounced eccent challenges.

  • Bombed around in the MG which a pal kept tuned and borrowed to impress dates.

  • Townsend was where i drove up to for weekends, full of 2nd-hand bookshops and quaint tea shops and coffee bars with jukes outta the 50s.

  • I'd met a man-eater from Raleigh, NC, at a poetry reading, where i'd read a Blake Morrison i'd stolen and trusted no one would recognise, and she - Daughter McDonagh - read an original, all husky voice and rolling overwrought vowels.

    Yes, 'Daughter'. Her parents had named her Daughter. Like a boy called 'Son'. I said i would pronounce it Dafter and after a lengthy explanation and much punchings of my shoulder she said that she supposed she 'got it'.

  • We both liked each other's poems which was a conversation starter to get to know each other and we tootled off for lunch where she matched me vin for vin as she made me talk my weird talk and used every opportunity to stroke and claw.

    We went back to my place where she scattered my CDs around, never listening to more than half a track. Then she disappeared into the bedroom and when i went in to see why she was gone so long, there she was in bed: "Reckoned i could play you some better sounds right here." In that husky north carolina growl.

    We bought dinner stuff and then went down to the folk club where she flirted like mad with the boys and watched me play with a feral gaze that never left me.

    Then she was ... well, just there. Said she lived with a brother up Port Townsend way but i never met him.

  • One weekend she said she'd buy me some pictures for my walls so up we drove, wind in our hair, laffing and joking and Dafty changing the radio channels til she found good country.

  • That photo of me by the MG: we'd finished lunch and walked down to the blustery shore and then on the way back she said 'lemme get a shot of you' and that's it.

    When we got back she said she was going to call her boyfriend in Raleigh. "He's a crazy mad biker. He'll kill you." Very nice, i must say.

    Called him up and said 'hey, listen to this guy talk.' and handed the receiver to me.

    Never have i heard such a mean muthafucker voice ranting down the line. Yep, he'd do me.

    I expressed nervousness and she said 'oh he's prolly on his bike right now, coming to get you. he'll find us, always does.'

  • I remember that time for being such a happy one: she'd keep house and now n then actually pay for groceries. Turn up at amazon at closing time and get thru security somehow and join me with the lads at the Starlite bar where she'd dance barefoot and drink JD and Coke and spend no time with me but drift from guy to guy, laughing and draping, occasionally checking in i was having 'a real good time', coz she was. The guys all adored her but none seemed to make a move. Once i was chatting up some bird from tech help and she came over and leaned on me and then stage whispered "It ain't working, hon. Let's go."

  • It all came back in one glance of the snap: how the weather was always good for us and how easily the chat came and how we both shared completely different jokes.

  • Incapable of rising before 10, she'd all the same make me coffee and set the egg ready to boil before sliding back under the sheets. Now and then she'd call her mother and make me tell her what a good girl her 'daughter' was being. Mom would tell her how Eddie was spittin' mad and how she'd better make sure to keep me safe outta the way, case he ever got up there.

    Once she answered the phone and said uhuh uhuh, sure and then handed it to me 'It's Eddie, he wants to talk to you.' It was a sales call from Mumbai offering to upgrade me to a cheaper service.

  • Then one day she asked me to drive her to some address in Tacoma and when her friend came out she didnt introduce me but took a long time hugging goodbye. And that was it. Her cell was dead and i didnt bother to call her mom.

    How does Cohen have it? I told you when i came i was a stranger.

  • 1 comment :

    Simon Baddeley said...

    A talented dinosaur! http://www.flickr.com/photos/sibadd/334402967/
    Noisy, smelly, branded, and ultimately futile - the bringer of concrete, urban wasteland man - a dying breed.