Mouse poop, wood rot and the organizing of my garage

I have come to dread the garage. Where once it was my "Man Cave" it has since become a hall of shame. Where once things had their place, now they stood unforgotten and lonely in a dark corner of the abyss. At one point she was in good shape. My lady had taken the time when I was away on business to sift through the rubble and make sense of the forsaken pieces and parts and remnants of life both from the past, the present and the future. Things were organized in bins and stuff we had no use for was discarded or donated. The labels on each bin had positive titles like "Beach Fun" and "Biking Gear" and "Camping Stuff". It was corrected, the mess of a cave, but soon, slowly, after time, and accumulation of stuff people thought we may need, it turned its cheek and relapsed into the jumbled, mixed-up, disorganized locker of waste. Rather than get back into it, I put it off, preferring to curse at the stacks, and shimmy sideways by the piles of randomness. If that didn't work I would simply scoot the stack to a new spot, wipe my hands clean, nod with acceptance as if I just did an important piece of work.

Look, I am not a lazy person, but the thought of tackling a chaotic garage slips down the list somewhere near getting a pedicure, going to a Yanni concert or seeing another movie with either Sandra Bullock or Keanu Reeves or both in it. Let's just say it's way down near the bottom of the aforementioned list.

The garage is supposed to be that special place where things like garden tools, bikes, more bikes, random things and holiday gear reside. Perhaps I am "scarred" by my childhood and the garage I grew up with/in. Maybe it is just a case of rebelling against my father's garage (not really but I need to make this impactful). I have fond memories of that garage, my dad's "Man Cave". It was a good size with rafters carefully organized and bins labeled. It had cabinets to the side and a bunch behind a wall where the water heater, and washer and dryer sat. The workbench was spotless and had just the essentials. The tool box too housed quality tools both new, and from my grandfather. It fit two cars comfortably and you can bet parking the cars in the garage took precedent over anything else. Bikes hung from the beams, a clean lawnmower sat on one side, Farrah Fawcett's (RIP) infamous bikini poster was properly tacked on one of the walls, and empty Yuban and Folgers coffee cans were recycled to store nuts, bolts, washers, nuts, etc. (properly labeled of course). Perhaps the greatest element to this childhood garage was the floor. It was infamous. It was polished concrete, shiny and new looking. The running joke was that you could eat off it, and in all likelihood, you could. My dad washed the cars on it (eliminates water spots caused by the beating sun) and when he did, the floor became an ice rink. It was slippery and dangerous and you had to walk with care for certain. We still tease him about that garage, in particular the floor. I suspect it's envy.

His current garage, at a different house is similar to the one of my childhood. It's smaller but incorporates the same care as the earlier one. Things are organized, there's still the shiny floor and coffee cans and two cars in their right place, polished as usual. Now he has sheds to house the garden equipment and yep those are dialed in also.

So you see my "pain". I am certain that my garage will never live up to the old man's. It's just not possible. I lack the will to dig in and discard. My organization skills waiver between decent and lame, and my ability to "just say no" is ridiculous. So onward I go, organizing the best way I know how, which can be considered just tidying up. I still question why we have so much lumber or old glass knobs or cd's, but I can't bear to discard them.

After a day of pushing things out, getting rid of randomness, and pushing it all back in to shiny new spots, the old girl has a slight facelift (maybe just a dose of Botox). My hope is that this slight cosmetic surgery sticks and doesn't end up like Joan Rivers all beat and not funny.

Now I like waltzing around in the space. Where's my bike helmet? Oh here it is, in the bike helmet section. Where's that power tool? Over here in the power tool box. Sweet Jesus it's organized. Not old man organized, but she's dialed in enough to cause a smirk rather than cussing, and sighing, and moping.

A tent, chowder and a car show

I haven't been camping in a while, let alone shacking in a tent with my two boys. The offer came up and the family shipped off with a car full of stuff, three nuggets stuffed in the backseat, my lady in the front, and a bike rack stuffed in the hitch. We were off for Father's Day weekend in Pismo Beach where we would meet up with my parents and their big RV and my sister, her husband and my nephew and their fifth-wheel trailer.

Oh Pismo. What can you say about it. If this was your first visit to Pismo Beach then you would truly freak out. It was a bit of Mad-Max mixed with an episode of Twilight Zone. Car shows can be a interesting study of people. You have such a cross-section of folks ranging from the wealthy old guys who have enough dough to sink into a Mercedes Gull Wing, to the blue collar guy who bought an old truck already polished, to the Cholo who has a nasty Impala dropped to the ground, and finally the white trash redneck who has decided to sink more cabbage into a '69 Camaro than into his single-wide mobile home.

The people that attend a car show of this size is actually more interesting than the presenters. The white trash level was high as was the range of mullets and muscle shirts. I saw more Cholos with bar codes inked on their neck than I would see on a Friday evening in Echo Park (not that I go there, but it sounds good). I am an extreme people watcher. I get it from my mom who is a professional at it. I mixed in well because perhaps I have a bit of white trash in me too. I mean I split a foot-long corn dog with my family. My son Cole still has the stick to prove it!

Camping in a tent in a camp site at the beach with family is an exciting thing. It's an opportunity to sit around a carefully groomed fire (thanks to my dad), talk smack, tease, joke, catch up on things, etc. My mom and dad usually camp on their own in their big RV so when the normal two-person site became 10, it put my dad's camp senses into overdrive. He's perhaps the greatest camp site organizer the planet has ever seen. Laying the turf, grooming the dirt, surveying the local dumpster for discarded objects like what appeared to be (according to my dad) a stand for a cooler. "All I have to do is take a wire brush to it, sand it a little, oil it, and paint it flat black." It's this mentality that has brought me many-a-treasure from random places. Things like a train set that the boys still use, plenty of sweatshirts from used cars and garage shelving racks that were left for dead.

My mom is the matriarch of the camp site. She's clearly the boss and if you are a bunch of Cholo guys who plan on blasting gangsta rap at 7:30 in the morning be prepared for the most gutsy woman ever to waltz to your site and let you know she doesn't feel like hearing it. A 25-year-old Latino tough guy is no match for my mom. In the camp my mom maintains a chair that turns her normal powers into superpowers. Suddenly, instantly, as if the camping chair with the cup holder released powerful energy, chores are shouted out in a mild-mannered tone. "Dick (my dad) can you get the tomatoes?", she says. "I think we need another log on the fire." It's poetry really. My mom's Italian blood needling my father's German genes. Somehow, someway, after all these years and all this time together it still works. Pissy in the one moment and loving in the next. It's a study in tolerance, patience, persistence, obedience, romance (maybe?). It's classic to watch.

Camping is also a time to indulge in all sorts of behavior. Eating smores every night, bringing out the Jiffy Pop (yep, they still make it) and not showering for four days. Camp fires too isn't something you make often if at all unless you camp. It's a time to unleash your inner-pyro and burn sticks and paper. Camp sites also provide for some excellent people watching including the lame-asses who blow $500 on a cooler scooter, or the aforementioned gangstas with bad taste in music and judgment.

It was a great bunch of days spent at Pismo and while the car show was a bit chaotic, the last evening was pretty sweet. The crowds had all but cleared out and the quaint, semi-edgy beach town returned to its true spirit. We ate good chowder, strolled around and had yet another carefully constructed epic camp fire. The next morning we packed up and hit the road, but not before my dad cleaned out in between the planks of wood that make up the top of the picnic table. I think he found some bottle caps and 26 cents.

IMAGE_CAPTIONS
Image_1: One of the many cool old trucks at the car show. I dig the primer color and faux rust look.
Image_2: Cole ready to mack down on a smore. They came out of his braces eventually.
Image_3: Luke: The kid who never seems to pose "normally" for a picture. Love it.
Image_4: Baby Hope was mesmerized by the carefully constructed camp fire.
Image_5: My nephew Tyler. He wants to be a fireman.
Image_6: I think my dad found 26 cents.