Display by Label: Remington
The Short Happy Life of a Toro Lawn Mower
Thursday, April 24, 2008 | comments (11)
You'd think that on its second mow, a brand new mower would be hungry to eat some grass. You'd think it would just be getting warmed up.
Apparently, my mower decided it had had enough of this grass-cutting shit. It died on me yesterday.
My neighbor, Ax (not his real name), was outside later that evening and I walked over to our fence to tell him my bad news. He and I are establishing a relationship not unlike the one between Tim and Wilson on Home Improvement. I'm Tim. Things tend to break when I get my hands on them. I go to him seeking consolation and advice. He's Wilson. He's older and wiser and he just knows shit. And dammit he's got a great freakin' lawn.
Ax also owns a classic muscle car, which he showed me the first day we met. I have to admit, it's pretty sweet. And shiny. Ax works on it in his free time. Also, he drives a Ford F-350 4x4, a truck that continually lobs taunts over at Remington from Ax's driveway. Damn bully trucks. The only thing that's a little pansy-ass about Ax is he's got two Dachshunds. I mean one would be unfortunate. But two is tragic.
As I walked over to Ax, the two "dogs"—a term I use loosely—greeted me as they always do, with furious barking and yipping. Have you ever seen a Dachshund when he's furious? It's kind of like when real dogs are being playful. Because of the commotion, Ax didn't hear me too well when I said, "My mower died." I could tell by the expression on his face and the way he said, "I'm so sorry" that he had misunderstood me. So I bent down and offered the dogs my hand to sniff, which shut them up. Then I said, no not my mother, my mower. God, who walks up to his neighbor, who he's only known for a couple of months, and says with a sort of flabbergasted, aw-shucks, can-you-believe-it atttitude, "guess what, my mother died." Nice weather we're having, isn't it? He must have thought I was crazy. Oh well, it won't be the last time for that. He'd better get used to it.
So I'm not sure if I set a record for killing a lawn mower, but I was going to look into it. I brought it back to Fred, who doesn't seem like so much of an angel to me anymore. He went to start the thing, only to find that the pull-chord wouldn't budge. Like I said, it was fed up. He admitted that this definitely seemed a little fishy. "But don't worry about a thing!" he said. He would figure out what was going on and I wouldn't have to pay for a thing. He's damn right I'm not paying for a thing. It's a Toro. And I bought it last week, remember? I wasn't worried about paying for things. But I do want to get up all this thatch I raked up the other day so that I can get some seed and fertilizer on the lawn before it rains this weekend. I'm on a time crunch, here Fred. I can't deal with mowers that die on me on the second mow, brother.
So if I find out more bad news today, and I can't get my mower back, I'm going to ask Fred for a replacement. And if that one dies, then I'll know God is pissed at me for last week's post. Maybe I should go ahead and apologize now.
link to this | comments (11) | File: Oogah Lawn House Grunt Remington
Apparently, my mower decided it had had enough of this grass-cutting shit. It died on me yesterday.
My neighbor, Ax (not his real name), was outside later that evening and I walked over to our fence to tell him my bad news. He and I are establishing a relationship not unlike the one between Tim and Wilson on Home Improvement. I'm Tim. Things tend to break when I get my hands on them. I go to him seeking consolation and advice. He's Wilson. He's older and wiser and he just knows shit. And dammit he's got a great freakin' lawn.
Ax also owns a classic muscle car, which he showed me the first day we met. I have to admit, it's pretty sweet. And shiny. Ax works on it in his free time. Also, he drives a Ford F-350 4x4, a truck that continually lobs taunts over at Remington from Ax's driveway. Damn bully trucks. The only thing that's a little pansy-ass about Ax is he's got two Dachshunds. I mean one would be unfortunate. But two is tragic.
As I walked over to Ax, the two "dogs"—a term I use loosely—greeted me as they always do, with furious barking and yipping. Have you ever seen a Dachshund when he's furious? It's kind of like when real dogs are being playful. Because of the commotion, Ax didn't hear me too well when I said, "My mower died." I could tell by the expression on his face and the way he said, "I'm so sorry" that he had misunderstood me. So I bent down and offered the dogs my hand to sniff, which shut them up. Then I said, no not my mother, my mower. God, who walks up to his neighbor, who he's only known for a couple of months, and says with a sort of flabbergasted, aw-shucks, can-you-believe-it atttitude, "guess what, my mother died." Nice weather we're having, isn't it? He must have thought I was crazy. Oh well, it won't be the last time for that. He'd better get used to it.
So I'm not sure if I set a record for killing a lawn mower, but I was going to look into it. I brought it back to Fred, who doesn't seem like so much of an angel to me anymore. He went to start the thing, only to find that the pull-chord wouldn't budge. Like I said, it was fed up. He admitted that this definitely seemed a little fishy. "But don't worry about a thing!" he said. He would figure out what was going on and I wouldn't have to pay for a thing. He's damn right I'm not paying for a thing. It's a Toro. And I bought it last week, remember? I wasn't worried about paying for things. But I do want to get up all this thatch I raked up the other day so that I can get some seed and fertilizer on the lawn before it rains this weekend. I'm on a time crunch, here Fred. I can't deal with mowers that die on me on the second mow, brother.
So if I find out more bad news today, and I can't get my mower back, I'm going to ask Fred for a replacement. And if that one dies, then I'll know God is pissed at me for last week's post. Maybe I should go ahead and apologize now.
link to this | comments (11) | File: Oogah Lawn House Grunt Remington
A Man's Prayer of Thanks For His New Lawn Equipment
Wednesday, April 16, 2008 | comments (11)
O Lord, I give joyful thanks for the lawn equipment you have given me.
After bringing home the shiny new Toro Mower and the Stihl Kombi-System Trimmer yesterday, and putting them in my shed, I could feel Your grace wash over me. And I sat for a moment and basked in this glory and contemplated the fact that the trimmer's engine can actually power a leaf blower along with several other attachments, including an edger, a cultivator, a hedge trimmer, and a power sweeper, and my heart was filled with wonder by all of these glorious instruments and the thought that one day they might all populate my shed and how this hope was a testament of Your love for men everywhere, O Lord, and of Your eternal genius.
And thank you, Lord, for delivering unto me an angel by the name of Fred, who owns the lawn equipment store down the road a ways, and who, in his thick Jersey accent, patiently coached me in the proper way to use these divine instruments of lawn maintenance. When he revved the engine of the mower in the parking lot, I could feel Your power fill my heart and understood that enlightenment was near. I grunted to Fred. And he grunted back. Because in our heightened state of spiritual awareness, language no longer mattered. Words were only obstacles to the exaltation of Your magnificent glory. Instead, we communicated like our forefathers, directly through simple, mono-syllabic sounds. And it was good and it was righteous.
And bringing that mower home, O Lord, in the bed of my truck—it's handlebar raised high and tall and shining in the New Jersey sun—was perhaps the proudest moment of my life. Could a man hope for something greater? And later, as I was filling my new red gasoline jugs at the Exxon, the attendant actually let me do the honors—which I didn't think was legal in Jersey—and I spilled a little on my hand. But I didn't wash it off, Lord, because the sweet smell of it filled my heart with gladness and brought back memories of my childhood, mowing lawns in the armpit wetness of Houston town. And as I drove home I scratched my beard with that hand so that the smell would embed itself there and follow me throughout the day and let others know that I have received this gift of love. And that I had been blessed with Your Holy Mercy.
Finally, Lord, I ask that you keep my neighbor's hearts from filling with envy at the sight of my new powerful lawn-care tools. And in turn, I will do my best not to covet that which I do not yet have and to not be jealous of A---, my next-door neighbor with the amazing green lawn.
Amen.
link to this | comments (11) | File: Remington Oogah House Grunt
After bringing home the shiny new Toro Mower and the Stihl Kombi-System Trimmer yesterday, and putting them in my shed, I could feel Your grace wash over me. And I sat for a moment and basked in this glory and contemplated the fact that the trimmer's engine can actually power a leaf blower along with several other attachments, including an edger, a cultivator, a hedge trimmer, and a power sweeper, and my heart was filled with wonder by all of these glorious instruments and the thought that one day they might all populate my shed and how this hope was a testament of Your love for men everywhere, O Lord, and of Your eternal genius.
And thank you, Lord, for delivering unto me an angel by the name of Fred, who owns the lawn equipment store down the road a ways, and who, in his thick Jersey accent, patiently coached me in the proper way to use these divine instruments of lawn maintenance. When he revved the engine of the mower in the parking lot, I could feel Your power fill my heart and understood that enlightenment was near. I grunted to Fred. And he grunted back. Because in our heightened state of spiritual awareness, language no longer mattered. Words were only obstacles to the exaltation of Your magnificent glory. Instead, we communicated like our forefathers, directly through simple, mono-syllabic sounds. And it was good and it was righteous.
And bringing that mower home, O Lord, in the bed of my truck—it's handlebar raised high and tall and shining in the New Jersey sun—was perhaps the proudest moment of my life. Could a man hope for something greater? And later, as I was filling my new red gasoline jugs at the Exxon, the attendant actually let me do the honors—which I didn't think was legal in Jersey—and I spilled a little on my hand. But I didn't wash it off, Lord, because the sweet smell of it filled my heart with gladness and brought back memories of my childhood, mowing lawns in the armpit wetness of Houston town. And as I drove home I scratched my beard with that hand so that the smell would embed itself there and follow me throughout the day and let others know that I have received this gift of love. And that I had been blessed with Your Holy Mercy.
Finally, Lord, I ask that you keep my neighbor's hearts from filling with envy at the sight of my new powerful lawn-care tools. And in turn, I will do my best not to covet that which I do not yet have and to not be jealous of A---, my next-door neighbor with the amazing green lawn.
Amen.
link to this | comments (11) | File: Remington Oogah House Grunt
Meet Remington
Monday, February 11, 2008 | comments (1)
In Texas, the truck is the most revered of all automobiles. They even get special license plates which identify them as a "Texas Truck." And I think that's how it should be. Because in the hierarchy of trucks, it's surprising, but size usually plays a secondary role to location. And that makes the Texas Truck the Lion King of bedded vehicles, brother. Believe. And so you know what that means? It means my old 1989 Nissan Pickup from the Lone Star, with its diminutive size and its two-wheel drive, would still trump that Ford F-250 from Delaware. And if it stepped out of line, well, there'd be a posse on call ready to ride his Yankee ass out of town. It's just how it is, son. Respect.
And so even though my new truck is a bit bigger than my old one. Even though he's all 4-wheel drive and big wheels and stands up tall with the big boys, even though his growl is an octave lower, even though on all counts this guy is much more truck than my old Nissan ever was ... (and I say that with all my love, Ol' Boy) it's still just a Jersey truck, with pale yellow plates. Out here, neurosis comes standard. It's not an "options package." And so these trucks are just a little more high-maintenance than their brothers to the southwest. They tend to be filled with a little more of the angst and self-loathing. They have "body issues." And that's fine. All it means is you have to feed their egos from time to time. And it's not that hard, really. Just throw them a few 'atta boys,' and smack 'em on the tailgate when they've done good. A little encouragement goes a long way.
But I'm being rude. Formal introductions are in order, here. So Internets, meet Remington. Remington, Internets. You can call him Remy for short. He's a 1999 Toyota Tacoma 4x4. Green. And like a Remington rifle, he's cool and smooth to the touch, but he'll fire smoking hot, when necessary. He stands tall in his wheels and runs great, but like all 9-year-old trucks, he has a few neurological issues. Most people don't realize it, but Tacomas are sort of known for their enthusiastic experimentation with psychedelic drugs. And it tends to lead to some brain misfirings in their latter years. Like when I first picked him up, Remy's horn didn't work. I mean, he'd open his mouth, but nothing would come out. It was kind of funny and sad at the same time. He just sort of forgot how to talk. But now it's fixed. Mike the mechanic rewired him. Which is good, I guess, except that now he won't shut up. He's your typical New York driver and enjoys cursing and flicking off the other trucks if they get too close. Sometimes he'll purposely annoy the sports cars on the road by going slow, then he'll push his weight over the lane line and make it difficult for them to pass. Cracks me up. And look, don't tell him because he's apt to get a big head and all, but I kind of think he's the shit. He sleeps outside because Hoshi has dibs on the garage. But he's fine with that, and really wouldn't have it any other way. Because despite his rough exterior, he's a gentleman at heart, and he knows Hoshi has delicate sensibilities. Also, it's kind of obvious that he crushes on her.
link to this | comments (1) | File: Remington Hoshi
And so even though my new truck is a bit bigger than my old one. Even though he's all 4-wheel drive and big wheels and stands up tall with the big boys, even though his growl is an octave lower, even though on all counts this guy is much more truck than my old Nissan ever was ... (and I say that with all my love, Ol' Boy) it's still just a Jersey truck, with pale yellow plates. Out here, neurosis comes standard. It's not an "options package." And so these trucks are just a little more high-maintenance than their brothers to the southwest. They tend to be filled with a little more of the angst and self-loathing. They have "body issues." And that's fine. All it means is you have to feed their egos from time to time. And it's not that hard, really. Just throw them a few 'atta boys,' and smack 'em on the tailgate when they've done good. A little encouragement goes a long way.
But I'm being rude. Formal introductions are in order, here. So Internets, meet Remington. Remington, Internets. You can call him Remy for short. He's a 1999 Toyota Tacoma 4x4. Green. And like a Remington rifle, he's cool and smooth to the touch, but he'll fire smoking hot, when necessary. He stands tall in his wheels and runs great, but like all 9-year-old trucks, he has a few neurological issues. Most people don't realize it, but Tacomas are sort of known for their enthusiastic experimentation with psychedelic drugs. And it tends to lead to some brain misfirings in their latter years. Like when I first picked him up, Remy's horn didn't work. I mean, he'd open his mouth, but nothing would come out. It was kind of funny and sad at the same time. He just sort of forgot how to talk. But now it's fixed. Mike the mechanic rewired him. Which is good, I guess, except that now he won't shut up. He's your typical New York driver and enjoys cursing and flicking off the other trucks if they get too close. Sometimes he'll purposely annoy the sports cars on the road by going slow, then he'll push his weight over the lane line and make it difficult for them to pass. Cracks me up. And look, don't tell him because he's apt to get a big head and all, but I kind of think he's the shit. He sleeps outside because Hoshi has dibs on the garage. But he's fine with that, and really wouldn't have it any other way. Because despite his rough exterior, he's a gentleman at heart, and he knows Hoshi has delicate sensibilities. Also, it's kind of obvious that he crushes on her.
link to this | comments (1) | File: Remington Hoshi
