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Well, it’s been a week here in Fort Stockton.  In the 100s most days, but it’s a dry heat.  Everywhere but my buttcheeks.

New Guy got a new tattoo and was showing it off at the Grounds for Divorce. It says, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” I’m thinking about getting the same one, just a little bit bigger.

Earlier this week Buttercup and I woke up at 3:00 in the morning thinking we were in a war zone in the middle east.  My first thought was that maybe someone was firing off all their unused fireworks from last month, but it didn’t really sound like fireworks.  It sounded more serious.  Then, the flames.  And then thick black smoke.  Pastor Peterson doesn’t spend a lot of time preaching on Armageddon, so I’ve always been a little unclear as to exactly what to be on the lookout for.  But I thought that might have been what was taking place behind the Captain’s Castle.  All hell was breaking loose, to be sure.

Turns out that the neighbors behind us and down one house had quite the situation going on at their abode.  They keep an RV in the driveway that is used mainly for hunting during deer season.  It was a nice, fairly new RV, but there really isn’t one other than a 1950 Westcraft Capostrano that adds value to the neighborhood, if you know what I’m sayin’.

Anyway, the thing caught fire.  Might have had something to do with the propane tanks on the front of it.  (They certainly added their own level of drama to the episode.)  But what made the biggest impact was the boxes of ammunition they kept stored in the thing for whenever their next big hunt was scheduled.  I hadn’t really pondered such a thing before, but apparently when a raging fire consumes boxes of ammunition, something very unique takes place.  It is disconcerting to be close by.  

My first thought was to grab the keys to the Fairlane 500 and back it out of the garage, should the burning shrapnel find their way over the fence.  “I’m not sure I could replace those fender skirts,” I told Buttercup as I grabbed the keys.  Buttercup, struggling to get out of bed with ice packs strapped to her knee and possibly being medicated and woozy, pointed out that our bedroom was closer to the flames than the garage was, and that she was not able to easily get out of bed on her own.  She also mentioned that she was situated closer to the windows than I was.  It was one of those moments where a decision had to be made quickly that could perhaps have long term implications.  I put the keys back on the nightstand.

The only thing stronger than the look she gave me was the smell of the thick black smoke from burning tires on the RV.  That seemed to linger in the air longer than the sounds of exploding ammo.  It made me wonder if this is something people deal with in other parts of the country, or if this is a Fort Stockton thing?  The next day I made my way over to check out the scene in the light of day.  The RV was nothing but a steel frame and wheels.  The garage had caught fire as well, but was put out soon enough that the whole house didn’t go up in flames.  How the two cars in the driveway (and their gas tanks full of gas) didn’t ignite is still a mystery.

Anyway, the fender skirts on the Fairlane 500 were never in any real danger, apparently.

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In other news, DB Cooper got his replacement CMC dad cap, his first one having worn out prematurely due to the intoxicating effect the darn thing has on Mrs. Cooper.  At absolutely no extra charge, I Scotchguarded the replacement.  But jeez, go easy DB.  In letting me know he received the package, and that Mrs. Cooper ran out to the mailbox to collect it before the postman even pulled away from the curb, he sent along a photo of his 1969 ‘Vette.  Twenty-eight years and counting for the ‘Vette being in DB’s possession. There’s got to be some stories there . . . . Or possibly will be.

He said something about paying cash for it. He didn’t specify if that cash was out of a suitcase, a lot of the bills wet and muddy. Like they’d been buried for a while.

I might need a picture of your new cap perched on the dash of the ‘Vette, DB, if you have the strength to make it back out to the driveway anytime soon.

Binderman’s 1959 Ford Custom 300 is going through the heart transplant of a new Coyote engine in place of the original 292.  Sources say the new Coyote can be seen in the foreground of the picture in the lower left. The list of upgrades seems to be growing. That front bumper has just been re-chromed, so there is no question about the eligibility at the next Folgers-N-Fenders. Looking forward to this project being finished and parked right next to DB’s ‘Vette at the Ground for Divorce soon.  

Maybe HairlessB29 will even pull the MG-A out and bring it up, if the weather has cooled down by then.

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I appreciate the plethora of comments on the post for dear-old-Dad’s birthday this past Friday.  Two of those really struck a note.  Angushopper relating his own story of faux-poop and the lasting memories it created regarding his father made me laugh out loud.  It made me wonder just how many sons are out there with “crappy” memories of their father, so to speak.

But then Motcat piped in with his speculation as to whether or not Dad’s ’67 Mustang had fender skirts or not, and maybe that’s where I developed my attraction to them.  Well, that’s just absurd.  Who would put fender skirts on a Mustang?  Oh wait.

However, as I mentioned in the story, the Mustang was traded in on a new Pontiac Catalina coupe.  Hand to God, I tried to get him to pay extra to have the optional rear fender skirts put on the Pontiac.  They came standard on the Bonneville.  Look at the difference and tell me that wouldn’t have been money well spent. (You can’t.)

His response to my suggestion was, “I’ll be damned if I’m going to be stuck on the side of the damn highway in middle of the friggin’ night struggling to figure out how to get the #$%*& fender skirts off the back of the damn car, just so I can change the *$#@!& tire.  Get serious!”

All of which led me to remember this scene from Christmas Story that is too good not to share:

I don’t recall dropping the F-Bomb in front of Dad at that tender age, although I wouldn’t rule it out completely. I know it wouldn’t have been at Christmas, though. Too much riding on that time of year to risk such an endeavor.

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As good as those comments were, they weren’t the best of the week.  Lucinda and the CotW Committee at the CMC World Headquarters atop the Ben Franklin voted unanimously for the winner of this week’s Comment of the Week.

In commenting on the story, SUMMER ’53 PART III, Feels Like Home, Sailor jim had this to say:

“Cap you sure as hell know your audience!

Crusty aging guys who, all are more alike than different (I am the better looking one).

Funny we think we are unique, but we are so damn predictable! Oh yeah, you’re a marketing guy paid to know your customer!

Mine was a brunette, 69 Olds Cutlass crescent eyes in a perpetual smile that matched her personality.  She was 23, already divorced, and I was 18. I could make her laugh and the quickest way to a woman’s heart is comedy.  Took me a while to learn that cause and effect.

Shared a six pack of Heineken at her apartment, four hours of unbridled 18 year old pent up desire. A kiss goodnight, with the understanding that this was a gift you only open once….

And I can’t remember what I had for dinner last night.”

Well, Sailor jim, today is your lucky day!  Lucinda has put together a prize package for your efforts.  Included in your gift box is a copy of  Morals Charge, a novel that closely parallels your story.  Read it now.  Read it again in the fall.  You won’t remember how it ends.

Also included is a bottle of Kentucky Fried Chicken flavored Listerine, just in case you might have any trouble getting the taste out of your mouth as you relive that experience.  And finally, your own 2-pack of FACE / BUTT soap for whenever you think you might be up to try to duplicate that experience.  (Even though you have eloquently stated, “that gift can only be opened once.) It will help keep things sorted out and make sure everything smells like it should.  Wouldn’t hurt to gargle with the Listerine, too.  Just sayin’. Chicks dig fried chicken.

But even more than the CotW Prize Pack awaiting you at the Grounds for Divorce is the respect and admiration of the CMC masses thrust upon you for your efforts.  Priceless.  

(As always, no cash value in lieu of the prize.)

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But that’s all in the rearview mirror.  What do we have coming up in the week ahead?

We pick up where we left off with Becky and Matt as their romance heats up in the late summer of 1953.  The last half of the series starts tomorrow and runs through Wednesday. Chance Collinsworth also makes a brief appearance this week, but not even in his own story.  And we all look forward to cooler weather here in Texas. Seems like the governor wasn’t quite able to fix that whole electric grid situation and our units are struggling to keep up. (I wasn’t talking about you, DB. Our air conditioning units.)

In the meantime, remember that the best things in life are free.  The second best are also free, but contributions sure help.  For those of you who consistently tip your server here at the blog, it’s very much appreciated. You know who I’m talking about.

If you haven’t, consider clicking down below and buying the Captain a cup of coffee as a show of thanks for the daily entertainment provided free of charge.  Supporting the blog keeps paper in the Smith-Corona, and helps Buttercup get the physical therapy to walk upright again, on both legs.

El Capitán 

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