I occasionally crossed paths in college with a guy I’ll call Art. I don’t want to say I “went to college” with him, because that implies we were around each other a lot, and we weren’t. He’d just kind of be in my life a time or two a year, like I’m hanging out or studying, and oh look, there’s Art. That kind of guy, you know?
Art was (and is, I’m sure) the quintessential “free spirit.” Having heard nearly ceaselessly for the first 25 years of my life that the most important thing I could do for myself was loosen up, I studied him a bit. I quickly determined I could never yank it as far the other way as he had it. He definitely heard different music in his head. Two things in particular stick with me about him.
The first thing that I remember about him was his car ownership philosophy. Art never paid more than $150 for a car. Never registered them, never insured them, nothing. He’d pay cash for the car, drive it until it laid down on him, leave it wherever the hell it quit, and go get another one. He’d gas ’em and oil ’em, and that was it, baby.
Well, except for this one electrical trick. He was partial to Ford Granadas and Mercury Monarchs, because he’d figured out a semi-effective kludge for their notoriously and chronically weak electrical systems. But as far as I know, that was the only thing he ever did to prolong his car’s life. I don’t think he even bought tires. Two flat tires meant it was time to go car shopping.
The second thing I remember about him was his favorite meal. Art loved nothing better than to make a huge pot of chili and use it as a dip for fish sticks.
OK, three things. Art smoked more weed than anyone I’ve ever known. I really rather doubt I was ever around him when he wasn’t baked.
I think the second thing I remember about him above was closely related to this third thing.
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I bet fish sticks taste less like ass when you dip ’em in chili.
No way! That sounds awesome. I’m brewin’ and bakin’ ASAP (chili and fish sticks that is, not weed).