Panama

Is it crazy to travel all the way to South America, by car no less, to finally find out what an old Van Halen song is about? If your answer is yes, then stop reading this column immediately. I don't want any of my readers thinking I'm crazy. Go read Rok Finger or something, I'm sure he's got a Metamucil story that won't challenge your notions of acceptably sane behavior.

As for Omar Bricks, I've spent the last two weeks On the Road. I capitalicize that because apparently some insane bastard in the 50's did the same thing as me and wrote a book about it, since I guess he couldn't pare his recollections down to column length. An indictment of his editing skills I'm sure, though no doubt those book sales paid him more in the end than the can of lima beans and sack of assorted shirt buttons I'm likely to earn for writing this column.

But regardless of what I earned, or what it cost in damage to other people's property, the trip was a major success. Omar Bricks got out of the cold-ass weather for two weeks and finally learned that the Van Halen song "Panama" has nothing at all to do with the tiny little Latin American nation, and that David Lee Roth was probably just fucking some girl named Panama, or her name was Pam Anna and Dave just wasn't paying much attention. But Panama itself is a bitchin' little country where they do things the Bricks way 24/7. Or at least I did things the Bricks way 24/7 when I was down there, and nobody seemed to mind too much. They didn't complain in any language I could understand, anyway.

Now I'm sure a few of my more anal-retentive readers are wondering how it's possible to drive down the Panama, enjoy some time there, and drive back all in two weeks time, since it's something like 4,000 miles round-trip. All I can say is that those fussy motherfucks have obviously never heard of sleep-driving. It's a pretty straight shot most of the way down to Panama, so as long as you tie your steering wheel to something solid in the car, you can snooze your way through most of the commute.

Not that I spent the whole drive dreaming about Salma Hayek and cheap Jose Cuervo. There was still plenty of time for mayhem on the ride down, including a stop at a parade staging grounds outside Mexico City to cover the Bricksmobile in flowers and papier-mâché, so there rest of the way down it looked like I was driving a giant floral bull, scary as all get out. You can bet no matadors crossed the street in front of me for the rest of that trip. Though I did run into an incident in Costa Rica where half the town thought I was driving a giant piñata and I had to haul ass to limit the bat damage to my car.

The Bricksmobile III—Red Bagel Edition stayed in South America, needless to say, after I drove it into the Pacific Ocean. Some asshole told me that Ecuador borders Peru, but he didn't tell me on which side. Yep, you guessed it: the other side. The side I drove off was all ocean, baby. Onlookers said I only survived because my car hit the water going so fast that it hydroplaned for about a hundred yards, giving me time to bail out like some kind of water-skiing action stud. Keep that in mind the next time some loudmouth down at the bar starts mouthing off about the virtues of anti-lock brakes.

Thankfully for the sake of my return journey, later that afternoon I happened upon a car left running outside a bank in San Lorenzo. Normally my capers stop just short of Grand Theft Auto, but I didn't think the dudes inside waving the guns all around would really mind, when I waved the dude inside waved back like "No problem." It's a whole different mindset down there, hard to explain. I'm not even sure they have that crime down there; it's more like Grand Auto Borrow.

The down-side is that I have no idea what kind of car it is, where it was made, or what kind of units all the instruments are in. It's fast for sure, but whatever 300 I got to on the way back, I don't think they were miles an hour. Unless I really floored that bitch while I was napping. The guy at the border said I'd never get that thing registered to drive in America, but that's what he gets for thinking I register my cars. You're just asking for trouble by attaching your name to an unpredictable machine that can cause more property damage than a cruise missile.

So I guess in the end we came out even, the world south of the U.S. taught me something about Van Halen, and I taught them something about automobile ownership. I guess that NAFTA shit is working after all. Bricks out.

No Love for the Working Man
Can you believe those cheap ass pants-handlers at the commune? I just found out they're paying us the same this year, despite the double-barreled workload increase that comes with the switch to the weekly schedule. That is the Double Western Bacon... (2/7/05)

The Basement Tapes
Apparently some construction crew Einstein had a brainstorm watching E.T. the other night, since I woke up Saturday morning to find my neighbor's construction site completely enclosed in some kind of gigantic biohazard flea tent. Thank God... (1/24/05)

Burn, Blaming, Burn
T'was the night before Christmas, and all through Bricks Manor, not a creature was sleeping, because my neighbor's house was all the fuck on fire. I shit you not, communauts, this was one bizarre-smelling Christmas. I barely saved the fireworks I... (1/10/05)

The Giving House
Can you believe my neighbor Dale is moving away? Shocked the hell out of me, too. You can never see these things coming. One day, his house collapses into the earth in a mysterious freak geological event, and then the next thing you know, all of a... (12/13/04)

Tales From the Underground
According to my idiot neighbor Dale, a watched pot never calls the kettle black, or rust never sleeps, or something. The point of it being (I think) that you have to take the initiative if you don't want some weird German dude with no body hair... (11/29/04)