The Brown Road Chronicles

Hey, all you BRC fans… like OMG… you’ll never believe this.  I was contacted by Blogger World Magazine for an interview about my blog. How cool is that?  Crazy stuff… here’s the text of the interview:

BWM:  Steve, thanks for taking some time out of your busy day to speak with me. Let’s start with a simple question… how old are you? 

STEVE:  Last September I turned 43, my hair and complexion is still in it’s 30’s, my joints are in their late 50’s.

BWM:  Okay, interesting… well Steve, it looks like you have been actively blogging since about late December of 2010.  Why’d you start blogging and what is your blog about?

STEVE:  Well I started blogging because I was finding I wasn’t able to waste enough time on Facebook, it was getting boring, everybody bitching about stuff and trying to be profound by quoting famous people.  BORING!!!  Plus I was always struggling to fit my long Facebook posts into the limited number of characters they allow. So, I just started writing stuff about me and my life and I had all these Word documents scattered all over my computer, like a virtual messy desk. I figured I’d consolidate them into a blog. That’s pretty much it.  What is it about?  Well, it’s about my average life in a small country town, living with my wife and my kids and a couple of goats and a 180 lb. St. Bernard named Sarge and a bunch of cats and anything else I can think to write about.

BWM:  Wow, sounds like you have a lot of animals.  Do you plan on getting any more?

STEVE:  My daughter wants a horse, she’s been taking riding lessons. My wife kinda wants a horse too. So we’ll probably have a couple of horses soon. Yeah, I know, how frickin’ nuts is that? Seriously though, I have always liked the idea of horses grazing in our pastures… when I am near them though, they scare the shit out of me. Someday I’ll write about the time I was on a trail ride, about 10 years old, and I was thrown from a horse. At the time I was pretty sure we were running down the trail at warp-speeds like Cowboys and Indians racing across the plains of Montana or something… I freaked out and fell off. Came to find out later we were pretty much just galloping down the path on geriatric trail horses.  A very humbling experience…

BWM:  I’ve noticed while reading your blog that you periodically bitch and moan about your job, what do you do?

STEVE:  I’ve worked in a family retail business for about 18 years. Retail can be great and it can be a brutal business, not only in terms of the crazy hours, but in terms of the beating your body takes.

BWM:  Well then, what would you do if you could do anything in the world, any career?

STEVE:  Honestly I’d probably lie around on a beach and drink margaritas all day, but that isn’t very responsible.  Second choice would be to be a writer, but that’s virtually impossible to make a living at…. fuck you, I hate that question… why would you ask me a stupid-ass question like that?

BWM:  Hey sorry about that… but speaking of swear words, in your blog you occasionally use profanity. In real life do you really swear like a… how did you put it… a stripper in a titty-bar?”

STEVE:  Only when my kids are not around… or if I am patronizing a titty-bar.  Ha ha… no, seriously, I am just kidding! I am a pretty clean-cut dude, but I let do let an f-bomb slip occasionally… hey I’m fucking human, alright!  Funny story… the other day, I walk into the bathroom, my daughter is in there getting all gussied up like teenagers do and I walk over and I’m standing in front of the mirror, man-grooming or whatever you want to call it… and I say out loud, “dude you are so fucking handsome!”  Just slipped right out, right in front of my 13-yr old… she just looked at me like, “Dad, you’re such an asshole.”  She didn’t actually say it, but she had that look… you know, that look…

BWM:  In your Gravatar picture you look like a farmer… are you maybe a little bit of a gentleman farmer?

STEVE:  Seriously, what the hell is a gentleman farmer?  When people say that I picture this dude standing out in his garden in a blue oxford button-down dress shirt, khaki Dockers and penny-loafers… maybe one of those big straw hats on his head… and a hoe, yeah definintely with a hoe.  I just don’t really know what that means… but to answer the question, no, I am about as far from a farmer as one can be. A friend of mine once said “you become a farmer when it no longer bothers you to step in shit.” Well I have to step in a lot of shit and it doesn’t really bother me that much… but no, I’m not a farmer. I do own a full-body winter Carhartt, which I am wearing in that photo and which my mother gave me for Christmas about 15 years ago.  One of the greatest things a guy can invest in… a Carhartt.  That and shit boots.  My wife bought me a nice pair of shit boots this past Christmas.

BWM:  What is that baseball hat you are wearing in the photo?

STEVE:  It’s a Colby College hat.  That’s where I learned to drink… uh, I mean went to college… and that’s where I met my wife.

BWM:  So you’re a drinker huh? What is your favorite alcoholic beverage?

STEVE:  I used to be mostly a beer drinker, about a decade ago I became primarily a wine drinker. I am not picky, boxes and jugs are ok with me. There’s certain places though where you really need to order a beer or you’ll look like a serious nancy-boy sitting there with a wine flute full of Chardonnay, surrounded by guys that work in construction or other trades that are swilling down Budweiser. Funny story… when I first moved here my Dad was visiting and we stopped at a local bar for a drink, one of those great local bars that has a neon sign outside that says “BEER”.  I had never been in there at the time, but that sign should have been our first clue. The waitress asked him what he wanted… he asked for a Pinot Grigio… I’m thinking, “c’mon Dad don’t embarrass the shit out of me, I just moved here… and then the waitress didn’t know what it was… she’s like, “a what?”  He says… “you know, like a white wine”… about ½ hour later we see them opening up a cheap-ass wine box… I still suspect they ran down to the grocery store and bought it. Can’t remember, but I’m pretty sure I ordered a beer that day.

BWM:  That’s funny! Your blog says…

STEVE:  Wait, I got another one.  This one’s really funny!  Awhile back my wife and kids and I and my uncle are at this restaurant near us… out in the middle of nowhere… a place where on weekends they have country line dancing… that says something right there!  So we’re ordering dinner and the three adults are all gonna order wine, so one of us suggests, why don’t we just get a bottle.  So we ask for a bottle and this waitress is standing there and looking all stunned, like a deer in the headlights.  Clearly no-one has EVER ordered a bottle of wine in this place… seriously… I mean no one.  So a little while later, she comes back with one of those 1.5 liter bottles that you buy at the grocery store, uncorks it, plops it down on the table… first words out of my mouth, “this is my kinda place!”

BWM:  Your blog says you grew up on Long Island. Did you have 80’s feathered hair and did you really wear parachute pants?

STEVE:  We moved to Long Island in 1977 from Michigan. My two older brothers and I were grubby Michigan kids with long greasy hair and cut-off jean shorts with fringy strings hanging off the legs, serious dorks!  Couple of the new neighbors thought we were little girls at first.  We quickly converted to be Long Island Boys with feathered hair and fancy clothes… so yes I had feathered hair that was parted down the middle until I was in college. I used to fling it back out of my eyes with my hands and by throwing my head back, probably at least seven-hundred times a day. I think that may have something to do with why I have a herniated disc in my neck these days. As cool as they were, I did not ever actually own parachute pants. My oldest brother had a sweet pair of red ones.

BWM:  Are you still into clothes?

STEVE:  Yeah, I still like clothes, and I still put all kinds of shit in my hair each morning.

BWM:  What products do you use in your hair?

STEVE:  I use cheap stuff like Suave hair gel and hairspray. Look, I’m Metro but I’m also a cheap-ass.

BWM:  How many pairs of shoes do you own?

STEVE:  I have never counted them, but I have roughly four pairs of dress shoes, three pairs of work boots, a couple of pairs of Sperry deck shoes, one pair of sandals, a pair of running shoes, a pair of high-top basketball shoes, shoes that I cut the grass in… I think that is about it!  Your questions are getting a little bit lame, are you running out of questions?

BWM:  Well, bear with me… I have just a few more here on my list. What do you eat for breakfast?

STEVE:  Yeah, that’s definitely lame. Are people really gonna care what I eat for breakfast? Dude, that’s just not that interesting… hey, but since you asked, I mostly eat Cheerios even though they taste like shit.  It helps me keep my girlish figure. I also eat a lot of eggs.  Hey, if I die from high cholesterol, well so be it.  I always say to my wife, “you gotta die of something.”  She hates that shit!  Seriously though, I’m a pretty healthy guy… seriously…

BWM:  What other foods do you like to eat?

STEVE:  I love seafood.  Of course it’s not as readily available as it was when we lived out East, but there’s some good Whitefish that comes out of the Great Lakes.  My wife and I love to eat lobster and steamed mussels.  Not that shit you get at Red Lobster for like $60.00 a plate, where it’s all prepared and soaked in butter and spices, but a real boiled lobster that you buy live and stuff it into the boiling water.  I can’t cook them though, I think that’s mean… my wife does that, she doesn’t care, just shoves ’em right down into that boiling water… they’re like freakin’ out and wiggling and grabbing their claws onto the sides trying not to go in… damn… I can’t do that.  Imagine what that poor lobster is thinking, one day you’re living in the ocean, the next day you’re living in a fish tank at a grocery store, the next day you’re getting stuffed into a pot of boiling water?  Holy crap, that’s gotta suck!  You know, they scream when you do that… ha ha… no they don’t really, that’s just an old wives tale.  Funny story… one of the first lobsters I ever ate, I was up in Maine, summer after high school graduation, visiting Colby College with my Mom and grandmother. We were eating lobsters at a local restaurant. I grabbed the claw with one of those nutcracker tools to crack it open and it just vanished… the whole claw was nowhere in sight… just plain gone.  I looked around and about 20 feet away sitting on top of an empty table was the claw.  I started laughing my ass off… been a lobster fan ever since.

BWM:  What else do you like to do?  Are you a sports fan?  Music?

STEVE:  Yes I am a sports fan, but not like those guys that live and breathe it, that shit is a little over the top.  I have other hobbies like playing the guitar, writing and blogging… and sleeping, definitely a big fan of that.  If I could make a living sleeping, man I’d be set!  I like all kinds of music… my favorite musician though is Jackson Browne, love the guy, have since I was a kid, greatest musician and songwriter to ever set foot on this place we call Earth!  If there was any musician that I’d sit naked with in a jacuzzi with a flute of Chardonnay… yeah, he’d be the guy… not that I’m gay or anything like that… seriously… hey, maybe don’t print that last line…

BWM:  You mentioned your girlish figure, how do you stay in shape?

STEVE:  I lift weights down in my basement two to three times a week.  I call it the Cave because it’s a 120 year old Michigan basement, dirty, nasty, I’m down their breathing in oil-burner fumes and coal dust and other bad stuff.  Great way to stay ripped though, although I’ll probably have lung cancer some day.  Ha ha…you gotta die of something, right?  Seriously though… I’m not really ripped… maybe scrawny is a better word… but, hey when you go to print… use the word ripped… I’m cool with that. I also play basketball every Monday night with a bunch of other old guys like myself.  That shit might just kill me one of these days too.

BWM:  What nationality is your family?

STEVE:  I come from some Irish, Scottish, German, English, not sure what else is in there… thus the whole drinking thing!  My mother did a family tree a long time ago and found an American Indian woman, somewhere down the line.  Not sure if that is really true or not.  We also had a relative that signed the Declaration of Independance.  No one you’ve probably heard of.  Probably just some dude that was drunk and sleeping off a bender in the back of the church and they figured he was part of the Constitutional Convention or whatever it was called.  Can’t you picture Thomas Jefferson handing this dude the paper and pen… “c’mon buddy, sign here, so we can get the hell out of here, we’ve been sitting in this place all fucking day… I just want to go throw back a few brewskies down at Old City Tavern.”

BWM:  Do you have hemorrhoids?

STEVE:  Whoa… hey now, that’s a pretty personal question… where the fuck did that question come from anyway?  I mean sure, haven’t we all occasionally battled hemorrhoids before.  But seriously… don’t print that question… what the fuck is wrong with you… that’s just way out of line… seriously…..

BEEP… BEEP…  BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

WIFE:  Honey… wake up, your alarm is going off….

STEVE:  What…. huh… oh… okay… sorry… I didn’t hear it… I was having the strangest dream…

I’m pretty sure there is a dead monster in my truck.  I can tell from the horrid odor that recently began wafting out when I open the door in the mornings. I think his dead monster carcass is decomposing somewhere inside and producing this horrible stench. I’ve looked around, but I can’t figure out where he died. I know it’s a monster, because only a decomposing monster could produce such a dreadful smell. I don’t know the lifespan of a monster, but I figure I have owned the truck for roughly seven years so I can only venture to guess it’s around seven years.  The horrible smell of his decomposing body is starting to become overwhelming.  Once I’m inside and the vents are turned on and the air circulates the smell begins to dissipate and it’s not as noticeable. It’s just when the door first opens, especially in the mornings.  The vile stench will knock your socks off, burn the hair from your nostrils.  It has to be a dead monster, there is no other explanation!

I have never seen this ghastly monster in all the years driving my truck.  I suspect he was born when the first drop of sticky juice or soda-pop splashed to the floor. Of course, because I have never seen him I can only speculate a vision of what he probably looked like… a hideous, disfigured mess of rot and filth, grown over seven long years of driving children to school and to their after-school activities.  I imagine his body was made out of paper plates, grease stained from holding a multitude of breakfast foods, chocolate donuts and pop-tarts eaten on the drives to school each morning.  His arms and legs, of course, long, scrawny, greasy strings of McDonald’s French Fries, connected together with salty ligaments so they moved and clicked like a skeleton’s bones.  I’ll bet his creepy, deformed monster face was an Eggo waffle, half-soaked in maple syrup, dripping from those little waffle-iron squares, and most-likely frightfully pock-marked with chocolate chips.  There was probably a big bite or two out of one side, maybe one of his grisly eyes was even missing.  His other eye, the one that was still there… and his nose… probably Cheerios, stale and crusty.  His mouth a Pixy-Stick wrapper, toothless and coated in leftover sugar.  His clothes he must have fashioned out of discarded napkins and granola bar wrappers… maybe even a few snotty filled tissues. His shoes, of course were leftover all-white-meat chicken Mcnuggets, dreadfully stained with ketchup.  Because his legs were so long and thin and feeble, he probably walked with a cane, craftily built from popsicle and lollipop sticks, assembled together with the sticky, gooey, sugar-glue that was leftover on the ends of each stick. He was probably always damp and muddy, soaked from the dirty water dripping off of boots and shoes… and moldy from head to foot, green and black fuzzy mold, creeping up and down his heinous, stenchy, paper-plate-french-fry body.

Disgusting, hideous, horrible… and he was living in my truck!

But now I believe he has finally passed, checked-out, kicked the bucket.  His monster spirit has gone to that better place where dead monster spirits go.  But his dead, smelly, decomposing body still inhabits my vehicle.  I know… I know it’s there… somewhere… because of that abhorrent smell that permeates the truck cabin when I get in.  Maybe he’s under the front seats, or in the storage area underneath the bench seat in the back.  Or maybe, he is just spread amongst the trash and filth that covers the floor mats where the kids sit.  I just don’t know, but I need to figure it out so I can get rid of the smell… and maybe, just maybe, this would be a good time to get the truck professionally cleaned!