For some reason seeing this little set-up at the swap-meet reminded me of an old project I’d like to do – The Neapolitan Hotline.

I’d go to as many grocery stores as I could and put a sticker on all of the Neapolitan ice cream boxes (or tubs, bars, etc.) that reads:

“Having trouble deciding which flavor to eat first? Please call The Neapolitan Hotline at 510.872.7326 for free professional advice. Thanks.”

I wonder how many people would call?

I personally always cut off the strawberry portion and give it to someone else, then I eat the vanilla, and by the time I get to the chocolate it’s sort of a mess.

You?

Disclaimer: I couldn’t really help out with the freeze-dried stuff they sell at the NASA gift shop; you’d have to call Neil Armstrong for that.

Mitch and Gina came in from Detroit this past week for a visit. Unfortunately, I had no place to offer them, so they roughed it in the RV. I think they secretly enjoyed it – who wouldn’t?

From the beaches to the bridges, I ran Mitch and Gina all over this town. I was like a walking tour bus; at one point Mitch asked me to stop making so much commentary. It’s not my fault I talk so much, there is just so much out there to speak about.

For the first part of our tour, we walked 15+ blocks in the rain to the auto shop to pick up my RV. That was fun. On the way, we passed a smoke shop, “Locks, Keys, and ID’s.” By day it’s all boarded up and looks like it should be ripped out, but by mid-afternoon, this id slinging, bong selling, place of business is the hottest place for blocks; it changed my life.

When I visited SF at the ripe old age of 15, I learned about this palace of freedom. With very little trouble, I bought my first fake ID here. It was a terrible one, really terrible. It looked nothing like the real California ID cards you get from the DMV, and it was way too stiff, like it was excited to get me into trouble.

I paid $10 for my new identity, “Mark Hector Harwood,” and I was off. I hiked all the way to a liquor store in North Beach to test out my new fake. To my surprise it worked. I wasn’t even able to grow facial hair at this point – what was this guy thinking? My buddy thought he’d give his new ID a try as well. He wasn’t met with a receipt and a brown bag. They snagged his ID, kicked him out, and threatened to call the cops. We took the train home after that; sharing our warm bottle of Michelob.

I was visiting my mom who lived in Sacramento. I spent the summers there, and then returned to Chandler, Indiana for High School, where I lived in my friend’s basement on a couch.

Come fall, when I returned to my dank shelter, I put my little laminated friend to work. I told some of the seniors that I could get them liquor if they drove me to the other end of town. My illegal business went up as fast as an old western saloon. It was simple – I charged $ 25 a visit and bought myself some extra bottles so I could sell it without a ride. I was making about $ 300 a week – sure beats a paper route.

Eventually, I was caught and suspended from school. Got a job at Arby’s for a few weeks – what a miserable place. That meat is seriously gross. It comes as a congealed mess in a bag; you slice it open and wash that preservative jelly off and throw it in the over for a few hours. I was never put on meat duty; I always washed and peeled potatoes and worked the register. I took up smoking while so I could take a few breaks throughout the day.

I eventually returned to school, quit my day job, and teamed up with a friend, Chad Augustine, who owned two Pontiac Fieros – one black and one gold. He was really into acid; I never tried the stuff, I think because I saw what it did to him. He would cruise me to the liquor store with orders and I would buy him a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 for his troubles. Sometimes, we would have to stop at his dealer’s house. His dealer had a robotic wrist cause his hand got cut off once, and every time we visited, he would make me put my finger on his wrist so I could feel the little gears moving around. He was a pretty creepy man, and I felt sorry for his little boy.

I continued my business, but on a much smaller scale. It got me through Castle High School, there in Paradise, Indiana.

Thank you kind Smoke Shop of Market Street.

This car has a great story behind it. I bought it for $ 800 about two years ago from someone who had bought it from someone else. It was in tip-top shape for an $800 22 year-old ride: good brakes, passed smog, sounded great, new shocks and tires, new alternator.

After about five months of driving it, my mom gave me her old truck when she bought a new car and I was forced to sell the Honda (the truck was later traded for my RV). I ended up selling the Honda to my friend Jon Rolston for $ 648 and a chocolate doughnut from Calafoods.

He really managed to beat the thing up. Thought he lost the key, so he ripped apart the dash trying to hotwire it. In the process, he destroyed the inside wiring; killing the stereo, the dome lights, the lighter, and the dash lights. He broke the passenger window out and replaced it with a piece of thick transparent plastic held on by duck tape. He painted names like “Miss Bunnycat” on all the doors, patched the roof with some thick snot-like epoxy, and hid some food under the driver seat so it would rot right into the carpet.

Out of complete desperation for a running car, I bought it back from Jon. My price – $ 180 and an overhead projector I found at the dump. I used the car for a while before I left on the first leg of the dinner tour, then I garaged it for many months. I pulled it out of hibernation the other day to run some errands around town. While out and about, someone had flanked my car and cut my rear license plate in half to steal my registration sticker. Kick ‘em while they’re down I guess; pick the junkiest car and give it and the owner more trouble than they already have.

At this point this car is much more trouble than it’s worth. I need to get it smogged before the DMV will grant me “official” permission to take little “Miss Bunnycat” on the road, it now needs new license plates that’ll cost about $ 50, my insurance cancelled cause I forgot to pay it, the CV boot is really toasted so the car makes a horrible clicking noise every time you make a right turn, it has fix-it ticket for the passenger-side brake light, and I have no where to put it since I have no home anymore. Despite all this, it still runs – 184,000 miles and still ticking (clicking). I posted it on Craigslist.org with very little luck – someone offered me $ 40 and a pair of movie tickets.

By pure chance, I ran into some folks from the neighborhood at my garage sale and they told me their Hungarian friend was looking for a cheap car. Boy was he in luck!

Sold – $ 200. The saga continues.

This was weird and sort-of uncomfortable. The shock treatment stuff was a little much, and the whole time I was lying there feeling my knee twitch around, I couldn’t stop thinking of Pinhead from Hellraiser. The only relief from that thought was a remote with a little white button that was directly linked to a vibrating device in the doctor’s hip pocket.

I was totally safe, nothing was going to go wrong; no Pandora’s Box gateway was going to open up near my knee and suck me into a parallel universe, but I guess if that started to happen, I’d need a lot more than a white button. Maybe some serious counseling to start with followed by a heavy dose of lithium; and someone should probably take my driver’s license from me.

Boy my knee never felt better!