About 40% of my physical misery has lifted since my last post. I was able to devote a chunk of my evening to the garden, and my hip/thigh pain was just a background ache. Next week I am scheduled for an appointment to see if this new pain is related to my surgery or if it is a distinct problem unto itself. I don’t care for either possibility. I don’t like the notion of my physical recovery sliding backwards, and I certainly don’t want to discover that I have some different orthopaedic issue.
When I was young, my dad offered the same diagnosis for all that ailed me. He’d tell me that all the trouble was due to a “crosswise” fart. Maybe he learned of such troublesome flatus during his stint as a military medic. I really wish my new pain was due to the mythical crosswise fart taking up residence in my hip joint. At least it would leave eventually. Despite the lowering of its volume today, I know it’s something that will no longer be ignored, like a neglected tooth gone bad.
Tomorrow I am going to attend another car show with my husband. Ever thoughtful, he is going to carry a small folding chair for me in case my leg starts aching from the slow walking and standing around. It’s one of those oddities of my healing that I can withstand faster walking but the slowing down and stopping is hard for me.
While it hard to get clean shots of the cars at such events, sometimes the people are just as interesting as the vehicles. The shot below is fairly typical of my photos from car shows. The uncropped images are full of strangers (or parts of them):
Today I spotted a man who looked like a cross between Sammy Hagar and Gallagher the watermelon-splitting comedian. Really, he had Sammy’s crinkled “I Can’t Drive 55” hairdo and Gallagher’s mustache. His face equally resembled both of these 80’s icons. Oddly enough, he looked young enough to have been born after they peaked in popularity.
This corner pop machine looks to have the vintage of a time when almost everyone would have known who Gallagher was, yet no man would have wanted to hear that he looked like him.
I admit that some of my mental math that determines resemblance is a little faulty. Last year I saw a long-haired young man with a Van Dyke beard, and I privately called him Flemish Jesus. From the shoulders up, he really looked like what I’d imagine a Little Dutch Masters portrait of Jesus might look like.
Yesterday my husband, my daughter and I spent a delightful evening at the Allen County Fair. I will devote this post to a surreal aspect of this year’s trip. Allen County, Ohio, is almost equally split between industry and agriculture. This mix sometimes creates some odd shows and activities at our fair.
Halfway through our evening, we stumbled upon a wrestling exhibition that looked like a hot mess. After we returned home, I did some brief searching about the troupe we watched. They are called Wrestling and Respect, or WAR, and they have a substantial local following. I am uncertain about much serious wrestling this troupe does, but the show we watched last night was pure camp.
Each of the wrestlers donned costumes from different variants or genres of the sport, including high school, 70’s, and luche libre:
It’s too bad I am still fumbling through the video setting on my camera, for if I were more confident with it, I’d be sharing a clip of these wrestlers dancing to “U Can’t Touch This.”
The wrestler who was sporting a 70’s style costume had the letters DDT affixed to his rear end. These letters could stand for his initials. If I were in charge of this troupe, it would signify that his persona is inspired in part by the outlawed pesticide DDT. I’d also advise him to bleach his hair platinum to conform better to his 70’s wrestling look.
Overall, this campy match was a lot of fun, even for the uninitiated (such as myself). For those of you who are familiar with the world of anime, I’d say that WAR match was like the Bobobo-bo Bo-bobo of wrestling.
My daughter couldn’t completely hide her delight in all the wrestling chaos:
One of my petunia plants decided to get leggy for more hours of sunlight, so now this pot echoes that asymmetrical hairdo of Speak to the Manager infamy. I predict it will soon demand twice weekly applications of fertilizer.
I didn’t move out of my parent’s house for good until I was well into my 30’s. I’d leave for a while and some fiasco or bout of ill health would lead me back. When I moved back for the last time with my daughter along, my parents had a few nickname-worthy neighbors.
One of them was a young man my family privately called David Koresh, who predictably lived on a property known as the Compound. David radiated a half-baked, cult-forming charisma but lacked the looks or vision to exploit this charm. There was a small but shifting cast of characters who’d frequent the Compound.
David tried starting several junking businesses without much luck. For a season, he collected appliances from various curbsides on garbage day, but these washers and the like would end up in pieces on his curb within a fortnight of their arrival.
Somehow he acquired a white cargo van (the kind my mom calls a serial killer van) that barely ran, and he decided that he’d convert it into a pick up for hauling pallets.
Here’s what the van looked like when it appeared at the Koresh Compound:
These pallets were to be made from salvage wood, i.e. hammering together good wood from broken pallets he’d recovered from who-knows-where.
I’d imagine that economy of scale doomed this venture. Some of my parents’ other neighbors could not tolerate the noise and debris from the van make-over. Within days of its transformation into a creeking pick up, the authorities determined it was not street legal (with pressure from the neighbors, of course).
The van/pick up was towed away shortly thereafter. I did take a couple pictures of this gem before it was gone: