Dear Veteran Cab Company of Windsor Ontario:
This holiday season, I had the pleasure of spending a week in the great province of Ontario, more specifically, the beautiful city of Toronto. While visiting the city, I had the opportunity to use various methods of transportation to peruse the town and visit several sites of interest. There was quite a bit of walking as well as an opportunity to use Toronto’s very fine subway system. And because the frigid weather became, at times, too harsh to bear, my traveling companion and I oftentimes chose to forgo facing the inclement weather and instead hailed one of the many cabs that were constantly traversing the cold city streets.
I must say that all of our experiences with the taxi services while in Toronto were pleasurable. The drivers were courteous and attentive. They were diligent when it came to putting our luggage in the trunk of their vehicles. They were chatty without being intrusive and they got us to our destinations in a safe and timely fashion. After a few days, I began to realize that when one is sitting in the back of a cab with a competent driver, the outside world can disappear for a short while and the rider can kind of dissolve into their own daydreams because the person behind the wheel has everything well in hand.
That was Toronto. Six days of ignorant bliss.Then came Windsor. What is it they say about rotten apples?
Instead of just relaying to you the details of our ragtag journey with your cab company and our odoriferous chauffeur, perhaps I should give you a few suggestions and observations and this may help you along the road to making the proper adjustments.
1) Don’t Hate - Participate
When you’re standing out in the freezing cold, waiting for a cab, the last thing you want to hear from the cabbie when you get in the car is “You shouldn’t stand there. Nobody will pick you up.” First of all, you may not realize this, but you are saying this as I am sitting in the car!. So, while your argument that you may be a nobody will not receive much push back from me, I think your statement was proven false even before you decided to make it. Secondly, instead of sitting on your ass making completely unnecessary and annoying statements, how about getting out of the car and doing your job. Which leads me to…
2) Unless My Name Is Hoke (which it isn’t) and Your Name is Ms. Daisy, I Shouldn’t Be Struggling To Put MY Luggage In The Trunk Of YOUR Taxi
So, you (Mr. Nobody) agree to give us a ride. I know this because you pop the trunk on your cab when we walk up. Now, by this point, I am used to cabbies popping their trunks, then rushing from the driver side of the vehicle to help me and my companion put our luggage in the trunk. I wouldn’t even call it helping us. We didn’t have to do anything. The drivers scurried to the curb, picked up our luggage and with kid gloves, placed our bags in the clean and spacious trunk of their car. So forgive me for making the assumption that you would do the same. Instead, we get the trunk popped from the inside of your warm vehicle, and you sit there and wait. As a result, I am forced to attempt to put my and my companion’s luggage in the trunk. I emphasize the word attempt. To understand why, see the next suggestion. Anyway, when you popped the trunk and ignorantly sat there waiting for us, you may have heard another popping sound. It was your tip balloon quickly deflating.
3) Spare Tires Are For Chubby Dudes and Hoopties
Tell me, Veteran Cab Co. of Windsor Ontario, who had the bright idea to put spare tires in the trunks of your cabs? Please tell me, because I would like to punch that gentleman in the left nostril.
Placing our luggage in the trunk of the cab was much more of a chore than it should have been because there was a rather large, soot-covered spare tire sitting there. So over half the space in the trunk was overtaken by this fucking ferris wheel of a tire straight out of Fred Sanford’s junkyard. Why was it there in the first place? If a cab gets a flat, what do you do? You call the dispatcher and have him send another cab! And I am quite sure you have some towing company on retainer to come out and fix the flat or tow the injured cab back to the station. Either way, there is no reason why my suitcase should have to sit on top of a grease and road-grit laden tire.
4) Soap And Water, My Friend. Soap And Water
Unless Christian Dior just came out with a new fragrance called Ass and Cigarettes, I’m pretty sure our driver was in desperate need of a bath. Here’s the key to bathing: Make it a daily routine, not weekly. The only thing worse then standing out in single digit windchills, is settling down in the back seat of a car that wreaks of menthols and ball sweat. I believe in smoke breaks. I do. Everyone needs some way of winding down. But here’s an idea. How about doing it outside of the vehicle? It keeps the interior of the car smelling fresh (other than the rank smell of taint sweat) and makes the trip that much more pleasurable for the people who are actually paying for the ride. And while Mrs. Nobody may find your B.O. sexually stimulating and irresistible, I found that it continuously triggered my gag reflex. Tell me, how can one man smell like the ass crack of the entire Atlanta Falcons defensive line after a triple overtime game in 100 degree weather? Quite a feat, my friend. I believe there was a Seinfeld episode written about you. And while we are on the subject of cleanliness…
7) Retire This Baby
This cab needed a shot of penicillin. Pasty, grime painted windows. Seat backs vomiting their innards. It was the kind of cab I imagine one of Tom Waits’ creations would have felt right at home in. I didn’t even want to sit in this thing. If I had the strength, I would have squatted the whole time like a soccer mom in a port-o-potty. Cabs should be like miniature apartments on wheels. Okay, that’s expecting too much. But if you’re sitting in the back of a cab and in your head you’re hearing Travis Bickle say, “Each night when I return the cab to the garage, I have to clean the cum off the back seat. Some nights, I clean off the blood.”, then you know you’re in a pretty shitty cab. Send that thing to the taxi graveyard - please!
6) Get Off The Phone!!
While most of our cab drivers were afflicted with that hideous growth that protruded from their ears and blinked incessantly (the insidious Bluetooth), you seemed to be the only one who appeared to pay more attention to the assclown on the other end of the phone than to your paying customers. “We want to go to — oh, I’m sorry. Let us know when you are done so we can actually tell you where we want to go!” And speaking of that…
7) Location, Location, Location
When your passengers tell you to go to the Holiday Inn Select and you attempt to end the trip by pulling into the parking lot of the Hilton (miles away from the desired location), how do you think such a faux pas could have occurred? Simple mistake? No. Mental Dyslexia? Hmmm…possibly. Most likely though, it is the fact that you were so busy mumbling to that glowing god in your ear, you didn’t take time to pay attention to the directions. As a result, we end up paying more because you just heard the H sound and you were off and running. I guess we’re lucky we didn’t end up at a haberdashery or a whorehouse.
The worst cab ride ever? For me, yes. When we finally did arrive at our final destination, the cab driver did not leap out to help us extract our luggage from the trunk. He only came around when he saw that I was struggling to detach my bag from the hungry jaws of that dirty tire’s tread. All he wanted was his money. And then, he was off like a funky thief in the night to pick up some other sap. My travel partner tipped the gentleman sixty cents, which in my opinion was seventy five cents too much.
Get it together Veteran Cab Co. of Windsor Ontario. I was a very dissatisfied customer. And if you wonder why I repeatedly spelled out your company name, it is because I hope that Google searches for your company will lead weary travelers to this blog. And maybe they will find an alternate, more hygienically friendly means of transportation.
Sincerely,
Recently Deloused Passenger #157
Oh, he’s the type of guy that preys on fears and ignorance
He makes a chick his VP pick, there goes experience
He holds out this carrot to the fans of Hillary
And thinks them dumb enough to simply vote anatomically
They call him the panderer - yeah - the panderer
Oh, his nose is brown, it’s brown, it’s brown, it’s brown
He’s got Cindy on his left arm and now Sarah on his right
How long before he calls this one the c-word late one night
Don’t think me crude or call me rude or label me a jerk
These words that chide attempt to hide my fear that this may work
Four more years of wars and tears and a failed economy
For heaven’s sake, too much to take. Please protect D.C.
From the panderer - yeah - the panderer
He’ll take “Roe” down, down, down, down
So, this weekend, a friend invited me to go to the roller derby at the Tennessee State Fairgrounds. Now, when I was a kid, you could often find me sitting Indian-style in my parents bedroom, my head upturned to their television watching the roller derby every Saturday night. Nothing could tear my eyes away from those taut and tawny purveyors of pain. Those beautiful women on roller skates and in tight shorts were even tantalizing to a ten year old boy who was probably supposed to think girls were disgusting. But no. That roller derby fanaticism was in my blood. But as the years went by, the games faded and soon disappeared from cable television and I had all but forgotten those dangerous, thrill-seeking vixens who had intrigued me so.
I went last night, eager to see if the thrill I once got from watching the roller derby would return. And return it did.
Let me start by mentioning the only con of the evening, and that was the venue. The derby took place on the fairgrounds in what would be the equivalent of a stuffy, claustrophobic high school gym. I am one of those people who goes to an event and immediately looks for the nearest exit in case any shit goes down. Unfortunately for me, the nearest exit was several feet away and I would have to crawl over several people to get there. But that was a minor negative in my book, especially after the game begun.
I am not totally aware of all the rules to roller derby, and to tell you the truth, I really don’t care. I know that the woman with a star on her helmet has to get ahead of all the other women on the other team to score points. The women on the other team try to keep the woman with the star on her helmet from passing them by bumping, elbowing or steering her into a crowd of onlookers. And all this is done while speeding dangerously around an oval on roller skates.
The women who raced in this derby were not your typical lipstick and high-heels type of chicks. Instead, there were tattoos a plenty, face and body piercings and a few scars and bruises to complete the set. And I hate to admit it, but I found these women mighty hot. I think this is partly due to the fact that I am completely against having any part of my body pierced or painted and to the fact that I am on blood thinners, so bumps and bruises of any kind could make me an instant DOA. In the hood, I believe fellows like myself are called marks, pussies. I prefer to call myself indescribably gifted and ambiguously gifted.
I think that the one thing that really got me hot under the collar was the way these women, jumped and dashed, pulled and pummeled each other and seemed to do it with a certain relish. There were no crybabies, no, “Oh, I broke a nail” types skating around that circle. Nope. Just a bunch of tatted chicks with gruff exteriors, holey fish net stockings, crazy names like LeeAnn Crimes and Bootsy Brawlins, and a taste for blood. How hot is that? And the cheerleaders?? Knee high converse, with mini-skirts, the aforementioned fish nets, loud, brash voices and many that showed enough cleavage crack to make any straight man or gay woman want to dive right in.
My favorite roller girl was a short-haired firecracker with the unfortunate moniker of Rambo Sambo. Short skirts, garters and fishnets and a definite spunk shot Rambo Sambo right to the number one spot in my heart. In between racing with ferocity around the track, Ms. Rambo could be seen on the sidelines dancing, gyrating her hips and thrusting her head quickly to and fro. I was instantly smitten. Especially when I watched her dismiss her rivals with a quick hip thrust that would send them flying across the floor and into the sideline seats. If only she could change that name! Rambo I’m cool with. But Sambo? My one hope is that she is referring to the martial art of Sambo which has been used by the Soviets/Russians since the early part of the 20th century and she is not in someway embracing the negative, racist image that has existed in this country since the late 1890’s. Seems to me the image of an ex-Vietnam vet and a Russian martial art makes a much more logical combination, so we will go with that.
Apparently, the roller derby matches last from now until the end of summer. My hope is that sometime between now and then, I can catch Rambo Sambo’s (perhaps blackened) eye and drop to a knee and propose. I’m quite sure the marriage would be a short one, as I can only imagine that within the first week or so of wedded bliss, I will find myself being admitted to the emergency room with a knife wound and an anal abrasion due to a roller skate wheel being jammed up my…those girls are so touchy. But that’s all a part of the appeal. Sex and violence, my friends. Definitely worth the price of admission.
I imagine Rambo’s man probably wrestles manic depressive pitbulls and can only pleasure himself if he has sandpaper attached to his hand. I could never measure up to that! But I am willing to try!
Rambo! I love you, girl…..don’t hurt me.
I must say that this has probably been one of the best years for me and major league baseball. Not only did I get to see my fourth major league game this weekend (and nearly a no hitter one at that), but my Phillies made it to the playoffs! Are you kidding me?? Autumn is by far the best season in the year and for so many reasons. One being the fact that the major league playoffs and the world series take place. I’m very excited that both the Phils and the Cubs are in it this year.
Like I mentioned, I got to see four games this year in four different venues. I’ve dropped in some photos of the four: Kansas City, San Francisco, St. Louis and Cincinnati. In order of greatness, San Francisco wins hands down. Just a beautiful, wonderful ball park. The people working there were all very friendly and helpful and I can’t wait to get back. St. Louis and Cincinnati probably tie for second. Both stadiums are relatively new and vastly improved over the old venues. St. Louis may actually get the edge just because the placement of the stadium and the view of the arch are perfect. Plus, their fans seemed a little more fervent. Kansas City’s Kauffman Stadium is pretty old school and the club level seating leaves a lot to be desired. However, the parking is much better since they are away from the downtown area and the staff was very friendly and helpful. But if I had to choose one, it would be AT&T Park. No question. Next year, I hope to hit four more stadiums in my quest to see them all, and definitely go back to San Fran.
San Francisco
St. Louis
Cincinnati
Kansas City
Just returned from San Francisco. Loved the town. Loved the people. Miss it already. Just the thought of that waning summer sunset lingering over the Bay Bridge conjures a depression I could not aptly describe. I feel like the city is teasing me, coaxing me to return, and return I will.