You know, all these lurking guests--of course they're welcome--from northern New Jersey might be wondering who the Hell franksolich is, as he doesn't know a damned thing about cars, and probably doesn't strike them as being particularly bright in other areas too.
I'll admit I don't know a whole lot about cars, but probably I know more than what I'm letting on.
It's in my professional best interests that the primitives from Skins's island think franksolich is stupid, and so I take great pains to cultivate that image. After all, there's nothing the primitives would like better, than to get their greasy hands on franksolich and hang him out on a barbed wire fence to burn in the heat of the sun.
Anyway, unlike most out here on the eastern foothills of the mighty Sandhills of Nebraska, I'm not into big vehicles. I prefer small,
low-slung cars whose underside almost touches the ground. This of course means my biggest automotive repair bills involve replacing bent tie-rods and broken axles (because I don't necessarily just drive on roads), but there's an advantage that far, far outweighs that disadvantage.
The winds of Nebraska even outside of the Sandhills are strong, and relentless.
<<<the only person I know around here who's never been blown off a road.
franksolich learned how to drive when circa 14 years old, and I worked at the local drive-in movie theater in the heart of the Sandhills. There was much nervousness about teaching me to drive, because many people don't think a deaf person should be driving anyway. As a result, I was a little behind my peers in learning.
I learned to drive using a Korean War-surplus jeep kept out at the drive-in. When I say "kept out," I mean it was kept out.....for decades....in the elements
all the time, never under cover. It was a vehicle much older than I was, and by the time I first drove it, much of the floor had been rusted out, the windshield was just a frame, the gauges on the "dashboard" were all broken, and the seat was bare bed-springs. The steering-shaft must've been rusted, because it was harder than a son-of-a-bitch, to steer.
It had good tires, though.
I drove it all over the gully-infested, rattlesnake-infested, burning-hot terrain of the Sandhills, whose terrain makes the lunar landscape look as smooth and easy and troublefree as any expressway in New Jersey.
The below isn't it, but it's pretty close to the way that jeep looked:
But really, cars aren't my thing; as long as all four wheels spin in the same direction, I'm cool, copacetic, with it.
I dunno much more else about them. Below's an old family photograph, taken in South Dakota, years and years before I was born (I was a very late child); that was the family car then, but I myself of course would have no memories of it.
I have no idea what kind of car it was, but it must've been a bitch changing the tires.
Now, everybody's always curious what franksolich looks like, the problem being that many of those curious are also primitives lurking here with malicious motives in mind. They want nothing more than to get their oily hands on franksolich, and string him up on the nearest tree.
So I take care to post only blurry, indistinct photographs of myself, in this case one of myself feeding the livestock circa the time Alphonse Capote Gore was running for president.
Among other possibly pertinent information, yes, I have a four-year college degree and then some; I lived in northern New Jersey for two years after graduation from college, and spent a couple of years wandering around the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants.....on my own dime, no one else's.
So to our guests from northern New Jersey--and oh my, there's been so many of them--this is your host.
