I was in Minneapolis last weekend for a bizarre phenomenon - the meeting of thousands of old men and their wives and children and/or grandchildren (with a few hicks and their families thrown in for fun) gawking at about 500 old trucks. I don't recommend it.
My dad happens to be one of these old farts (he's 57 but can act 67) so we do this once a year. This is what happens when you get old. You have nothing beside this to do. It's either old cars or old trucks.
These guys aren't just anybody. They look and act the part. Each one of them either has a beer gut or is balding. Usually both. Also, they've either worked as truckers at one point in their life (my dad) or served in the military. I cannot tell you how many times I heard the phrase "When I was in the Army..." (or some variation of it). Unfortunately I sat next to one who was a hick starting to become a geezer on the plane ride out and learned all about his time in Vietnam. He let me know EXACTLY what it feels like to get malaria. Yum yum. Makes airplane food taste five times better! Anyway, these guys also have a prerequisite that they either have their wives lay out their clothes for them or cannot allow their clothes to match or be ironed. Sometimes washed.
If you're looking for a good, intellectual conversation, I don't not suggest looking for one at these sort of places. It's either about, you guessed it, trucks, their time spent in the military or trucking, blasted politicians, or how "them darn Injuns are stealing my land!" Their wives aren't much better. Their conversation leans toward grandchildren, swapping recipes, various old lady-ish hobbies, or their husbands. Many of these people are also quite conservative. Pity on you if you voice an opposing opinion. Especially if you are under the age of 30.
To all of you who have also experienced these meetings, my sympathies are with you. To those of you who haven't, you're "one hell of a lucky bastard", as a fogey would say.
Wednesday, June 9, 1999
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