Dadeo, I’ll reply to your loft-building question tomorrow, after I scan a couple of photos…
In the meantime, here’s a continuation of the story:
<hr>
The “Planâ€
Thirty Years in a Housetruck
Moderator: TMAX
Since I wasn’t able to arrange for the use of a tow bar to take my car along, I would need a place to store it for the time being until I could come back for it. Woodley’s mother owned a condo in San Pedro which had an enclosed parking garage underneath with room for two cars, although she owned only one. We took my car over and after removing the battery to use in the Housetruck, pushed it into the parking stall, with the hood underneath an overhead storage cabinet. I locked the car and we drove back to Marion’s estate.
Although I don’t really recall, a post card that I sent my mother indicates that we pulled out of L.A. the evening of April 21, 1975, bound for Santa Barbara, where Woodley’s estranged wife Anne was attending college.
My first night on the road apparently didn’t make enough of an impression on me to have a lasting memory. We may have had dinner and maybe drank a beer, but about all I can remember is being parked on the side of a street outside of Anne’s apartment.
In the morning, I do remember meeting a couple who were in their late 50’s or early 60’s who were living full time in a VW bug with a big dog. The seats in the car had been modified to lay flat to create a bed. They had been parked along with Woodley’s step van and my Housetruck, so apparently the neighborhood was very tolerant of mobile living.
At some point, goodbyes were said and we continued our trip north on Highway 101.
Although I don’t really recall, a post card that I sent my mother indicates that we pulled out of L.A. the evening of April 21, 1975, bound for Santa Barbara, where Woodley’s estranged wife Anne was attending college.
My first night on the road apparently didn’t make enough of an impression on me to have a lasting memory. We may have had dinner and maybe drank a beer, but about all I can remember is being parked on the side of a street outside of Anne’s apartment.
In the morning, I do remember meeting a couple who were in their late 50’s or early 60’s who were living full time in a VW bug with a big dog. The seats in the car had been modified to lay flat to create a bed. They had been parked along with Woodley’s step van and my Housetruck, so apparently the neighborhood was very tolerant of mobile living.
At some point, goodbyes were said and we continued our trip north on Highway 101.
The Automobile Club map of California shows that it's 294 miles from Santa Barbara to our next destination, San Jose. I don't remember whether we made it in one day, or if we overnighted somewhere along the way. The Housetruck at this point had a top speed of 40 MPH, and assuming no significant stops for food gas or recreation, it would have taken 7-1/2 hours on the road to make the trip.
Highway 101 in 1975 was still pretty much a two-lane secondary route, especially along the coast, where the road still had many sharp turns and steep hills. I can only think that we must have stopped somewhere and resumed the drive the next day.
San Jose was the destination because that's where my Grandparents lived in a mobile home park that had been bulldozed out of orange groves on what was then the edge of town. In those days, SJ had a population of about a half million. Today, it has twice that. The interesting thing back then was that the city limits were very far out from the city center. It seemed like we drove for an hour after seeing the sign announcing our arrival in the city limits. Guess that's what you get when the incorporated area is 178 square miles.
We located the mobile home park, and found parking places near my Grandparent's trailer. We hadn't been there more than a few minutes before the park manager came by and told us that we had to move or trucks out of the park. When we explained the situation, we were "allowed" to move out of the park and into the large vehicle storage yard off to one end of the park. Woodley and I spent the next day or two parked among commercial motor homes, boats and utility trailers in storage.
(An interesting aside: When I next visited my Grandparents in the Housetruck in 1981, after doing a complete make-over and paint job, the same manager tried to pull the same stunt on me again. I pointed out that I was parked between my brother's and father's commercial motorhomes, and asked why they weren’t being made to move to the storage yard. I also offered him a tour of the inside, and he seemed very impressed. I didn't have to move after that, and made it a point to build the smokiest fires possible in the woodstove during my stay!)
Anyway, we stayed a day or two, during which time Grandma Mace did all our laundry, and we enjoyed the park's hot tub and sauna.
Highway 101 in 1975 was still pretty much a two-lane secondary route, especially along the coast, where the road still had many sharp turns and steep hills. I can only think that we must have stopped somewhere and resumed the drive the next day.
San Jose was the destination because that's where my Grandparents lived in a mobile home park that had been bulldozed out of orange groves on what was then the edge of town. In those days, SJ had a population of about a half million. Today, it has twice that. The interesting thing back then was that the city limits were very far out from the city center. It seemed like we drove for an hour after seeing the sign announcing our arrival in the city limits. Guess that's what you get when the incorporated area is 178 square miles.
We located the mobile home park, and found parking places near my Grandparent's trailer. We hadn't been there more than a few minutes before the park manager came by and told us that we had to move or trucks out of the park. When we explained the situation, we were "allowed" to move out of the park and into the large vehicle storage yard off to one end of the park. Woodley and I spent the next day or two parked among commercial motor homes, boats and utility trailers in storage.
(An interesting aside: When I next visited my Grandparents in the Housetruck in 1981, after doing a complete make-over and paint job, the same manager tried to pull the same stunt on me again. I pointed out that I was parked between my brother's and father's commercial motorhomes, and asked why they weren’t being made to move to the storage yard. I also offered him a tour of the inside, and he seemed very impressed. I didn't have to move after that, and made it a point to build the smokiest fires possible in the woodstove during my stay!)
Anyway, we stayed a day or two, during which time Grandma Mace did all our laundry, and we enjoyed the park's hot tub and sauna.
The trip to the north continued in a thrust of several days of driving.
For some reason, we didn't cross the Golden Gate Bridge, opting instead to take the San Rafael Bridge across the bay.
Our usual pattern was that I drove in front with Woodley following in his step van. This was probably because the Housetruck was the slower of the two.
During one drive near Capella, California, I lost sight of Woodley in the mirrors. He continued to be not there for a short while, then I came onto a long, straight stretch of road where I could see behind me for at least a mile. Still no Woodley.
I managed to find a turnaround and got headed south again, just in time to see him coming over the horizon. We pulled over to find out what was going on (two-way radios would have been a great thing on this trip).
Woodley was way into stopping to pick up hitch hikers, having all that room in the step van for them to ride, and he had been stopping frequently since we left San Francisco. Too often it seemed, as he had about 15 people in the truck. All the additional weight, along with the cargo he was carrying had made his truck even slower than mine. Of course, stopping to pick up and let off passengers made the bus routine even slower.
As I mentioned, Highway 101 was a lot of two-lane roads then, much of that original pavement is now designated "Scenic Byways", as the main road has been blasted through hill and valley and paved four lanes wide through most of the length of the state.
One night's stay, we simply found a small spur road to the side of the Highway, and pulled out to set up camp. I do remember that we still had one hitch hiker with us who had been riding in the cab with me, as I set up a tarp for him to sleep under. Just before dark, the owner of the property pulled up to find out what was going on. We explained that we were just travelers passing through, and thought that this would be a safe place to spend the night. The owner agreed, and welcomed us to stay on the condition that we light no fires and leave no trash. Things were different back then, I guess. No fences or "No Trespassing" signs, and a property owner who respects the concept of the "Commons" for honest travelers.
For some reason, we didn't cross the Golden Gate Bridge, opting instead to take the San Rafael Bridge across the bay.
Our usual pattern was that I drove in front with Woodley following in his step van. This was probably because the Housetruck was the slower of the two.
During one drive near Capella, California, I lost sight of Woodley in the mirrors. He continued to be not there for a short while, then I came onto a long, straight stretch of road where I could see behind me for at least a mile. Still no Woodley.
I managed to find a turnaround and got headed south again, just in time to see him coming over the horizon. We pulled over to find out what was going on (two-way radios would have been a great thing on this trip).
Woodley was way into stopping to pick up hitch hikers, having all that room in the step van for them to ride, and he had been stopping frequently since we left San Francisco. Too often it seemed, as he had about 15 people in the truck. All the additional weight, along with the cargo he was carrying had made his truck even slower than mine. Of course, stopping to pick up and let off passengers made the bus routine even slower.
As I mentioned, Highway 101 was a lot of two-lane roads then, much of that original pavement is now designated "Scenic Byways", as the main road has been blasted through hill and valley and paved four lanes wide through most of the length of the state.
One night's stay, we simply found a small spur road to the side of the Highway, and pulled out to set up camp. I do remember that we still had one hitch hiker with us who had been riding in the cab with me, as I set up a tarp for him to sleep under. Just before dark, the owner of the property pulled up to find out what was going on. We explained that we were just travelers passing through, and thought that this would be a safe place to spend the night. The owner agreed, and welcomed us to stay on the condition that we light no fires and leave no trash. Things were different back then, I guess. No fences or "No Trespassing" signs, and a property owner who respects the concept of the "Commons" for honest travelers.
The final stopover on this trip is certain in my mind. Our first night in Oregon was spent in a rustic campground a mile or two from Brookings. This was the most remote location we had stayed during the trip, being in a forested location near a creek or small river, and completely away from the city and traffic noise.
In the morning, we were preparing to get back on the road and met up with some other young people who had stayed in the campground. As they were leaving in their pickup truck, we told them that this was our first morning in Oregon, and that we were moving up from L.A. to live in the state. We made some jocular comment about probably not telling them that because Oregonians hate people from out of state, and they turned kind of nasty and said "Why don't you turn around and go back". I don't think they were joking.
In the 1970's, you didn't tell people where you moved into the state from. There was a very strong anti-non-native sentiment. The former governor, Tom McCall had made it pretty clear that tourists were welcome to come visit, spend their money and then go home. "Don't Californicate Oregon" was a popular bumper sticker, and you would frequently see "SNOB" stickers (Society of Native Oregon Born). There was also the small simulated Oregon license plate sticker with the letters "NATIVE" and an open space for stick-on numbers that proclaimed "Since ____", where you could post your birth year, in simulation of the real license plates expiration sticker.
It didn't take long before you found out that keeping quiet about your place of origin was a very good idea. Some people would press you for the information, and on more than one occasion, I would either tell them that I, too was a "native", or else out-snob them by telling them I was from Alaska.
The whole thing was a load of BS in my opinion. I would ask people who claimed to be "natives" what tribe they belonged to. They would get confused, "What'dya mean?". Hey you claim to be a "native", but all that means is that your ancestors came from somewhere else, possibly displacing real native Oregonians in the process, so put up or shut up, are you Nez-Peirce? Siletz tribe? Calapooya band? Alsea family? Clatsop clan?
These days, most of the white "natives" have either died off, moved away, or gotten over it.
Anyhow, back to the trip. We drove north on Highway 101, and after passing through one of the larger coastal cities (not saying which one), I looked in the mirror to see a County Sheriff following. After a short time he turned on his lights an pulled us (me, really) over. I was presented with my "welcome-to-Oregon" traffic citation for impeding traffic.
As I mentioned, the Housetruck would only do 40 MPH. This meant that I frequently had to pull over and let traffic pass, which I had been doing since leaving LA. In this particular instance, there was nowhere to pull off the road to let traffic pass. The cop told me that it's a violation to have four or more cars following a slow vehicle. I tried to tell him that the first vehicle was Woodley, and that he had been behind me for the last 800 miles. The car behind him was an old granny-lady who refused to pass even on long straight stretches with a dotted center line. The car behind her had only been there for a couple of miles, then his cop car made four, and he had only pulled into line a half-mile back. No dice, I got ticketed anyway. Got to keep the roads safe from all those too-slow hippy trucks. Actually, I don't think he ever registered that the Housetruck was anything more than a moving van, as there were no windows, grilles or appliances visible on the road side to make it look like an RV-type vehicle.
After getting settled, I received a letter at my old LA address from the county directing me to pay the $17 fine for this ticket, or face certain penalty by the justice system. I wrote them a letter back respectfully telling them that they could stuff it. Of course, by that time, I had turned in my California drivers license by sending it back. When I applied for an Oregon license, they asked me if I had my old license, and I told them that I had returned it as a "symbolic protest against air pollution". Whatever, the Oregon DMV didn't care, and issued me a shiny, new license with no citations attached. I still drive straight through that county non-stop just in case there's still a warrant out for me....
The day of the week was Sunday, and we arrived in Eugene at the Franklin Boulevard exit of I-5, having taken Highway 38 from Reedsport to the valley and the Interstate. We stopped at the Shell gas station just across from the Joe Romania Chevrolet dealership and used the pay phone to call Kim and let him know we had arrived. Kim's father, Lyle (known hereon as "Jeep") came to meet us and to lead us through the basically deserted Sunday afternoon streets of Eugene to our new home in the south hills of the city.
(Continued? Possibly...)
In the morning, we were preparing to get back on the road and met up with some other young people who had stayed in the campground. As they were leaving in their pickup truck, we told them that this was our first morning in Oregon, and that we were moving up from L.A. to live in the state. We made some jocular comment about probably not telling them that because Oregonians hate people from out of state, and they turned kind of nasty and said "Why don't you turn around and go back". I don't think they were joking.
In the 1970's, you didn't tell people where you moved into the state from. There was a very strong anti-non-native sentiment. The former governor, Tom McCall had made it pretty clear that tourists were welcome to come visit, spend their money and then go home. "Don't Californicate Oregon" was a popular bumper sticker, and you would frequently see "SNOB" stickers (Society of Native Oregon Born). There was also the small simulated Oregon license plate sticker with the letters "NATIVE" and an open space for stick-on numbers that proclaimed "Since ____", where you could post your birth year, in simulation of the real license plates expiration sticker.
It didn't take long before you found out that keeping quiet about your place of origin was a very good idea. Some people would press you for the information, and on more than one occasion, I would either tell them that I, too was a "native", or else out-snob them by telling them I was from Alaska.
The whole thing was a load of BS in my opinion. I would ask people who claimed to be "natives" what tribe they belonged to. They would get confused, "What'dya mean?". Hey you claim to be a "native", but all that means is that your ancestors came from somewhere else, possibly displacing real native Oregonians in the process, so put up or shut up, are you Nez-Peirce? Siletz tribe? Calapooya band? Alsea family? Clatsop clan?
These days, most of the white "natives" have either died off, moved away, or gotten over it.
Anyhow, back to the trip. We drove north on Highway 101, and after passing through one of the larger coastal cities (not saying which one), I looked in the mirror to see a County Sheriff following. After a short time he turned on his lights an pulled us (me, really) over. I was presented with my "welcome-to-Oregon" traffic citation for impeding traffic.
As I mentioned, the Housetruck would only do 40 MPH. This meant that I frequently had to pull over and let traffic pass, which I had been doing since leaving LA. In this particular instance, there was nowhere to pull off the road to let traffic pass. The cop told me that it's a violation to have four or more cars following a slow vehicle. I tried to tell him that the first vehicle was Woodley, and that he had been behind me for the last 800 miles. The car behind him was an old granny-lady who refused to pass even on long straight stretches with a dotted center line. The car behind her had only been there for a couple of miles, then his cop car made four, and he had only pulled into line a half-mile back. No dice, I got ticketed anyway. Got to keep the roads safe from all those too-slow hippy trucks. Actually, I don't think he ever registered that the Housetruck was anything more than a moving van, as there were no windows, grilles or appliances visible on the road side to make it look like an RV-type vehicle.
After getting settled, I received a letter at my old LA address from the county directing me to pay the $17 fine for this ticket, or face certain penalty by the justice system. I wrote them a letter back respectfully telling them that they could stuff it. Of course, by that time, I had turned in my California drivers license by sending it back. When I applied for an Oregon license, they asked me if I had my old license, and I told them that I had returned it as a "symbolic protest against air pollution". Whatever, the Oregon DMV didn't care, and issued me a shiny, new license with no citations attached. I still drive straight through that county non-stop just in case there's still a warrant out for me....
The day of the week was Sunday, and we arrived in Eugene at the Franklin Boulevard exit of I-5, having taken Highway 38 from Reedsport to the valley and the Interstate. We stopped at the Shell gas station just across from the Joe Romania Chevrolet dealership and used the pay phone to call Kim and let him know we had arrived. Kim's father, Lyle (known hereon as "Jeep") came to meet us and to lead us through the basically deserted Sunday afternoon streets of Eugene to our new home in the south hills of the city.
(Continued? Possibly...)
a kinna similar, kinna reverse thing happened to me; I registered my bus in Oregon, then went back to L.A. area. I there got a parking ticket, which i fought and failed. I asked the D.M.V. respectfully what would happen if I refused to pay it. The lady said it would just get tacked on to my registration. I never payed it, and never heard from them again. I didn't, however, re-register the bus in either Oregon or California.
Time to resurrect this necro-thread. I’ve spent some spare time in the last couple of weeks reading an online diary written by a fellow who lived in Berkeley in the 1970’s, and have gotten inspired to fill in some more early years of my own.
The Berkeley diary was written as it happened, and for the most part, it was about gratuitous, joyless sex, lots of alcohol and drugs, and spending time in bars hustling young women, with the resulting “relationshipsâ€
The Berkeley diary was written as it happened, and for the most part, it was about gratuitous, joyless sex, lots of alcohol and drugs, and spending time in bars hustling young women, with the resulting “relationshipsâ€
Well, I guess as long as one person is reading this, I can continue.
After getting the quick tour of the town, the next order of business was to get our trucks unloaded. Both Woodley and I had packed them nearly full of household belongings, building materials for the conversion to housetrucks and a lot of tools and equipment for Kim’s "machine shop", which he was planning on putting together in the incomplete shed building. I hauled a large and heavy arc welder, and Woodley had moved acetylene and oxygen tanks for the gas welder Kim had purchased in L.A. In additional to some of the furniture I brought along, I had a gas stove, RV refrigerator and water heater, windows and doors and other materials. Most of this went into the shop building next to the truck, which needed only a door and some plywood to be enclosed and secure.
Jeep had wired the shop for power, but it didn’t work correctly, so I figured out his wiring mistakes and ran an extension cord to my truck to run some lights and the electric blanket on my bed, as I had no other source for heat in the truck yet. Woodley was parked across the gravel road next to the pump shed that served Kim’s rental trailer, so he was able to get power there for the same purposes.
We spent a few days exploring the properties, and getting to know the neighborhood. Kim’s rental property was quite interesting, the owner had begun building an A-frame house on the lot, but it had burned down during the construction, so the yard was strewn with assorted building materials, car parts, appliances, fasteners, and a lot of miscellaneous junk. Of course, we were "forbidden" by Kim to touch any of it, which made it all that much more attractive. There were several derelict cars and trucks on the property, mostly so overgrown with berry vines that they were unapproachable.
There was a low platform in a tree up the lot from the trailer, a perfect place for us to retreat to for safety breaks when we didn’t want anyone to know where we were or what we were doing. There was also a rope swing on the lower part of the property, tied way off the ground on the limb of an ancient tree.
As the days went by, we began clearing a circular area of berry vines and rocks, put up some fencing and began turning the soil to create a large garden area. Old stable stalls on Jeep’s property were mucked out for composted straw and manure.
Saturday nights, the three of us would pile into the front of Kim’s 1954 Chevy pickup truck and go into town to Max’s Tavern on 13th street to drink some beers and listen to live music (frequently folk or bluegrass).
When we weren’t being kept busy by Kim or Jeep doing some chores around the properties, Woodley and I would work on our trucks. He was painting the interior of his step van, and I installed an operable vent in the roof above the sleeping loft and began installing some wiring to run proper lighting.
I transfered the open claim for unemployment that I had from California, and the checks started coming in, and we both registered for food stamps, so there was income and groceries. The arrangement for parking our trucks on the properties was barter for our labor, so the rent was covered.
About all that was missing was having my own car, as Kim’s truck was fairly unreliable and wasn’t always available for us to use when we needed to go somewhere. Mostly, I ended up riding along with whoever was going into town. Woodley would frequently use his step van as basic transportation. Getting my car up to Oregon was going to involve a trip back to LA, one that I wasn’t sure how to arrange. At least for a while…
After getting the quick tour of the town, the next order of business was to get our trucks unloaded. Both Woodley and I had packed them nearly full of household belongings, building materials for the conversion to housetrucks and a lot of tools and equipment for Kim’s "machine shop", which he was planning on putting together in the incomplete shed building. I hauled a large and heavy arc welder, and Woodley had moved acetylene and oxygen tanks for the gas welder Kim had purchased in L.A. In additional to some of the furniture I brought along, I had a gas stove, RV refrigerator and water heater, windows and doors and other materials. Most of this went into the shop building next to the truck, which needed only a door and some plywood to be enclosed and secure.
Jeep had wired the shop for power, but it didn’t work correctly, so I figured out his wiring mistakes and ran an extension cord to my truck to run some lights and the electric blanket on my bed, as I had no other source for heat in the truck yet. Woodley was parked across the gravel road next to the pump shed that served Kim’s rental trailer, so he was able to get power there for the same purposes.
We spent a few days exploring the properties, and getting to know the neighborhood. Kim’s rental property was quite interesting, the owner had begun building an A-frame house on the lot, but it had burned down during the construction, so the yard was strewn with assorted building materials, car parts, appliances, fasteners, and a lot of miscellaneous junk. Of course, we were "forbidden" by Kim to touch any of it, which made it all that much more attractive. There were several derelict cars and trucks on the property, mostly so overgrown with berry vines that they were unapproachable.
There was a low platform in a tree up the lot from the trailer, a perfect place for us to retreat to for safety breaks when we didn’t want anyone to know where we were or what we were doing. There was also a rope swing on the lower part of the property, tied way off the ground on the limb of an ancient tree.
As the days went by, we began clearing a circular area of berry vines and rocks, put up some fencing and began turning the soil to create a large garden area. Old stable stalls on Jeep’s property were mucked out for composted straw and manure.
Saturday nights, the three of us would pile into the front of Kim’s 1954 Chevy pickup truck and go into town to Max’s Tavern on 13th street to drink some beers and listen to live music (frequently folk or bluegrass).
When we weren’t being kept busy by Kim or Jeep doing some chores around the properties, Woodley and I would work on our trucks. He was painting the interior of his step van, and I installed an operable vent in the roof above the sleeping loft and began installing some wiring to run proper lighting.
I transfered the open claim for unemployment that I had from California, and the checks started coming in, and we both registered for food stamps, so there was income and groceries. The arrangement for parking our trucks on the properties was barter for our labor, so the rent was covered.
About all that was missing was having my own car, as Kim’s truck was fairly unreliable and wasn’t always available for us to use when we needed to go somewhere. Mostly, I ended up riding along with whoever was going into town. Woodley would frequently use his step van as basic transportation. Getting my car up to Oregon was going to involve a trip back to LA, one that I wasn’t sure how to arrange. At least for a while…
-
TMAX
Old Photos
Hi Sharkey, was digging through some old photos and came across pictures of the housetruck from the swap meet days. Interesting times to say the least..
Well, well, interesting that TMAX should show up now, right about when he’s due to reappear in the story…
I’d be interested in getting copies of those photos somehow. I remember taking a series of frames out of the back of the truck, a panorama of the Long Beach Drive In during one of the swap meets. It would be really interesting to see photos of the outside of the truck, I don’t have anything older than about 1976 or so.
Continuing with the narrative:
One day in May, Woodley and I returned from a trip to the grocery store and found a familiar Buick with California license plates in Kim’s driveway. It was TMAX’s parents, Chick and Connie, who were on their way to Reno, and for whatever reason, had made a detour to Eugene. They offered to give me a ride back to LA to pick up my car, but I had to leave with them that afternoon, as soon as possible in fact.
I stuffed some clothes, my car keys and a small bit of money into my Boy Scout backpack, bundled up my sleeping bag, gave Woodley instructions on how to feed my Guinea Pig, and set off for my trip southward.
Our first overnight was in Bend, where the motel owner asked Chick where he had picked up the hitchhiker (me).
Then we were in Reno. I don’t gamble, and so I was standing around, being bored and feeling alienated in some casino while Connie fed the slots when some elderly woman I never saw before ran up, grabbed me by the arm, and dragged me over to one of the machines. "Here, Honey" she said- thrusting a handful of nickels at me, "This machine is paying, but I have to leave", which she did.
“WTF?â€
I’d be interested in getting copies of those photos somehow. I remember taking a series of frames out of the back of the truck, a panorama of the Long Beach Drive In during one of the swap meets. It would be really interesting to see photos of the outside of the truck, I don’t have anything older than about 1976 or so.
Continuing with the narrative:
One day in May, Woodley and I returned from a trip to the grocery store and found a familiar Buick with California license plates in Kim’s driveway. It was TMAX’s parents, Chick and Connie, who were on their way to Reno, and for whatever reason, had made a detour to Eugene. They offered to give me a ride back to LA to pick up my car, but I had to leave with them that afternoon, as soon as possible in fact.
I stuffed some clothes, my car keys and a small bit of money into my Boy Scout backpack, bundled up my sleeping bag, gave Woodley instructions on how to feed my Guinea Pig, and set off for my trip southward.
Our first overnight was in Bend, where the motel owner asked Chick where he had picked up the hitchhiker (me).
Then we were in Reno. I don’t gamble, and so I was standing around, being bored and feeling alienated in some casino while Connie fed the slots when some elderly woman I never saw before ran up, grabbed me by the arm, and dragged me over to one of the machines. "Here, Honey" she said- thrusting a handful of nickels at me, "This machine is paying, but I have to leave", which she did.
“WTF?â€
Guy, I've activated your account. Sorry about that, the PHP mail service that sends out your activation message frequently doesn't work, from what I hear from other phpBB users. You should be able to log in normally now. I've credited your profile for the two posts you made as a guest.
The confirmation code image is a pain, but it was the only way that I could allow guest posting, which I considered to be an important part of this forum. Too many robot registrations and spam messages unless the confirmation image is difficult. And it is difficult, I usually have to try multiple times when I try it myself to check it's operation. Anyway, no more of that for you, you're registered and activated!
The confirmation code image is a pain, but it was the only way that I could allow guest posting, which I considered to be an important part of this forum. Too many robot registrations and spam messages unless the confirmation image is difficult. And it is difficult, I usually have to try multiple times when I try it myself to check it's operation. Anyway, no more of that for you, you're registered and activated!
Just so ya know Sharkey, there's more than one person reading this colorful tale! Just haven't said anything due to being so enraptured by your captivating writing style. Keep those saga segments coming, we are loving it! Thank you!
Last edited by Griff on Wed Nov 14, 2007 10:29 pm, edited 2 times in total.
~(G)Q Arduously Avoiding Assimilation
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