Tag Archives: James Bond

Convertible

Convertible: (adj) having a folding top, as an automobile or pleasure boat.

One of the nicest things my father-in-law did before he decided he hated me was allowing me to drive his 1967 silver Corvette with a convertible top to the prom. He did this because I was taking his daughter, of course.

Matter of fact, I don’t remember him being that nervous about it. I think it’s because he had already decided not to like me, and figured if Ifunny wisdom on words that begin with a C brought the car back intact, what’s the harm? And if I was killed driving it, what’s the harm?

The day of the prom I had free use of the vehicle, preparing for the evening’s festivities. I took it out on the old 3-C Highway, on a stretch of road that was pretty deserted, and for the first time in my life, I drove a hundred miles an hour.

I suppose I should tell you it was invigorating, and I felt like a real man, but actually, it scared the shit out of me. I had the top down, and it happened to be one of those days in the Buckeye State when the sun was willing to shine without regret.

By nightfall, as I put on my tuxedo for the ball, I had sprouted a huge sunburn. A normal person would have been upset about this, but I was young, foolish and still engaged in the craft of stupidity. I thought I looked cool. I thought when you compiled my tuxedo plus the Corvette plus my sunburn, which I declared to be a tan, that I had a slight (ever-so-slight) resemblance to James Bond.

Yet, after picking up his daughter and going to the prom, I discovered that everybody spent the evening deeply concerned about my scorching. And even to this day, you can look in our class yearbook and see a picture of me with huge dark-red cheeks.

It turns out, I was not James Bond. Instead, I was his younger dopey brother, Dirwood, who had not yet discovered the wisdom of sunblock.


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Abakan

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter AAbakan: an industrial city in south central Russia, capital of the republic of Kaskaskia, population 154,000.

For me, it was my grandfather’s root cellar. Now, if you don’t know what a root cellar is, it is an unfinished basement in an old farmhouse where they used to keep potatoes and various produce to make it last longer before rotting.

It was a scary place. It had stone steps that wound around a corner into the darkness, and as a child I was frightened to death to even open the door and look within. Matter of fact, my Grandpa died and the house was sold before I ever worked up the courage to know what was around the bend in the darkness.

Likewise, being raised in America during the time of the Cold War, I have much the same feeling about Russia. It is my geopolitical root cellar.  When you mention ANYTHING in Russia–like Abakan–I immediately get visions of the Soviet Union with wild-eyed, crazed Cossacks, hunching over big, red buttons, trying to decide whether today is the day that they will murder the imperialist Americans.

Now, I now know this isn’t true. I am a fairly sophisticated, intelligent person who has read a newspaper or two, and has even occasionally perused a news magazine. I understand that Russia is not out to get James Bond, nor is it trying to murder young children–or for that matter, brainwash us through socialist media to become communists ourselves.

But still, there is a chill that goes down my spine when I hear the word “Russia.”

I feel ashamed. I think it’s time for me to give my own version of “To Russia, With Love.” But I am reluctant. I still fear that around the corner there is a dark place lurking to swallow young boys who shouldn’t have been there in the first place.

Aren’t we all silly? But after all, silliness is often just belief that has not yet been exposed.