The Pendletones

The dawn of hipster surf...

Hot Car Girl

I'm often asked how I met my wife.

The New Bohemians

If I had to apologize to a building for the insistence of a face lift, I think this is as good a candidate as any.
After it was a hotel and before it's current state as a law office, this building was the Fremont Public Library...of the microfiche era. Its first surgery I believe, and correct me if I'm wrong, was in the late 60s, which is about the time it began this not so quiet, fancy pants aesthetic.
Put it this way, if you were new to Fremont and had a homework assignment that required some research, chances are you were not going to mistake the only white, stucco-ish, faux facade in a town built almost entirely of brown brick, for the dry cleaners.

Mrs. Hunt, the librarian if I recall, made many a trip upstairs to shush me and my friends as we plowed through stacks of National Geographic with utmost maturity, four of us, crammed into one side of a study carrel. The upstairs also served as a meeting place and semi hangout when parents poo-pooed the almost junior high aged, pre make out, never without another friend in tow, mating ritual.

More importantly, the upstairs was also the home at one time to Addie's Book Nook. Almost as close as Fremont was ever going to come to welcoming the sinister hippies (except for Ted's older sister's paper and bong emporium of course, which lasted about a minute). Addie, was married to one of the town's veterinarians, and rumor had it that their parties were, well, different. I always thought her husband was just a little too grumpy and unhippy-like when ever we brought our hysteric, Irish Setters in for shots.
She, Addie, of the hairy eyeball, kept close tabs on us when ever she felt like we were spending a little too much time rummaging through the Raquel Welch posters.

Back Seat Systems Analyst

If you guessed this vehicle is a 1996, Honda Odyssey, you guessed right. This highly sought after vintage treat has at least two obvious identifiers in this photo, as you collectors well know.
The first of course being the missing, or shall we say modified, rear interior, hatchback door panel. It doesn't necessarily boost the aerodynamics per se, it just makes life easier when you have to continually lube up the latch mechanism on a daily basis.
And of course the other is the pre-Garmin, onboard navigator, which, if not factory installed, can now be found as an after market item.
This particular unit is called a DD, or Duke Of Dickaround as it states in the manual. What separates this from the modern day GPS is the alarm. If you as much as slightly go off course on your way into town for the daily pee-walk or make a quick, off-the-cuff decision to avoid that pesky school bus, instead of the flashing lights with abrasive buzzers or horns, you get a mild, somewhat anxious, repetitive whimpering sound as if to say, "Why the hell are we not taking the exact route we always take?"

Haircut by Joan And Company
Hat, the models own.

Good *&%$#@ Morning

Day before yesterday I drove most of the way toward Milwaukee with a soda straw between my fingers. Occasionally drawing an imaginary pull from the non-filtered end. Stopped to get gas at the oasis where I pumped $15 dollars in with $5 conveniently left over from a twenty dollar bill and bought a pack. It sits in a cup holder and remains unopened.

I figure why hide from the bastards. If I really want one I'm gonna have one whether they're right there or I bum one off somebody.
It's probably similar to other addictions, however serious, where all the triggers check in to say hello. Followed by many different styles of excuse and justification or hell, what if it's JUST TIME TO HAVE A SMOKE!

Party Spoilers

In Sunday School, I had met my match as class cut-up/loudmouth/all around shit. He was stealing my thunder. I believe this may have been the first time I instilled in myself the adage: keep your friends close but your enemies closer.

So I befriended him by pointing out our obvious similarities, or rather our celebrity status as nitwits of the congregation. I quietly kept score by trying to gauge the direction of the Sunday School teacher's harsh. And I'll admit, I pushed to become friends for another reason. Some may call me a social climber for this but, his folks had a color TV. His dad was a doctor so they happen to be one of the few in town that had a color set.

So one Sunday afternoon, after a highly successful bout of post church, verbal napalm, I wrangled my way over to his house. I was given the obligatory tour of his room and his brother's, probably for comparison's sake. That or he wanted to prove that he too was capable of having friends. I tra-la-la'd down the hall toward the kitchen with one eye open for the living room or den. I could tell boredom was setting in and quite possibly the realization that, beyond being attention mongers, we didn't really have much else in common. I had no choice, time was running out, I pulled out all the stops and just went for it,"Hey, wanna watch TV?

And there, in full on technicolor, was Marlin Perkins' Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. When it was over I called my ma, she picked me up and got the hell out of there.

Pretenders ('78-'82)

By the time I was discovering the Pretenders, two core members, James Honeyman-Scott and Pete Farndon, were already dead and gone. And of course this late seventies-early eighties
line-up turned out to be my favorite, all cliches aside. Why? Probably the swashbuckle Farndon added aesthetically, along with the kindred bashing and navigation through mix and match time signatures with rhythm partner, the speartip- mutton-chopped Martin Chambers. Dang, they had the whole package.
And then there is Chrissie Hynde who I adopted an immediate, delusional bond with after I learned that, not only was she the only yankee in a band of Brits, but a yankee from Akron, Ohio. A measally 300 plus miles away. Thats like next door.

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