Out of Print

Confession: I still possess my first library card. It’s a yellow plastic card a little thicker than the credit card in your wallet. On the front, top right corner, there’s sticker taped down with Scotch tape with the extirpation date (September 1997, in case you were curious). On the front, top left corner, there’s an orange outline drawing of sun with an evil looking face. Sort of smack in the middle there’s a bar code for scanning, and of course, that too is Scotch taped down. Also Scotch taped down is what passed for my signature on the first grade. On the back there’s a list of simple rules to follow and an oath that I am responsible for all items checked out. Quite simply this little card is one of my favorite things.

I don’t think I used it much as a kid. But as an adult I can understand now the power and freedom it could have given me. Because a library card isn’t really a card but a passport. I hope I’m not stealing that line from some public serve commercial. But I probably am.

I haven’t forgotten about this blog, I just didn’t have any inspiration until I saw another commercial. This one is for Amazon’s Kindle. You’ve probably seen it. A woman talks about how satisfying it is to read a book while a man shows her how easy it is to read a digital copy of a book on a Kindle.

The truth is the both have their pros and cons. However, I am a dedicated follower of the good old fashion paper book. And will be for the foreseeable future. Someday I’m sure I’ll cave and buy an iPad or a Kindle, just not yet.

Why? Of course I know you can keep your whole library on one device and if you read a lot (which I do) you can save money and trees in the long run. And of course it’s convenient to have all those book right there in one hand. But you never have to charge a book or call tech support if something goes wrong.

I buy my books used, on-line for around $3 including shipping. True, my paper backs might take almost two weeks to arrive (conveniently) in my mailbox but I have probably close to twenty books to tide me over in the mean time. When I’m finished reading I can either resell it, pass it off to a friend, donate it, or keep it. All of which save money and trees.

At some point I’m such I’ll buy an iPad. And at some point I’m sure that iPad will an eBook or twenty but right now I’m happy flipping through the pages of paperbacks and then proudly putting them on display as both art and bragging rights.

'Til Daddy Takes the T-Bird Away

Last week my friend, and fellow blogger, wrote a piece on her love of retro futurism in home design. I may have played a small role. You see, we had a brief discussion on 1950’s design and she ran with it from her way so I decided to run with mine.

As a kid one Christmas I got a 1957 Chevy Bel-Air Convertible Barbie car. Love is the only word I could use to describe how I felt about that car. I lost interest in the Ferrier I already had, it just wasn’t as cool. For years the Chevy stayed in my closet because I couldn’t bear to part with it. It came to represent a time in history I will never be a part of but will always have a fascination with.

Because of that toy car I now drool at the site of any automobile influenced by the Space Race. I mean, just look at the ’57 Chevy. It actually looks like it could take off and land on the moon! The chrome accentuates in all the right places and the instrument panel looks like it came straight off a rocket ship. Sadly though, it’s not the kind of car I would like to drive.

During the late 1940s and early 50’s members of The Greatest Generation came home from World War II, got married, and moved to the suburbs. The working class man needed a vehicle he could not only commute in but also take his wife, 2.5 children and the family dog on a picnic or to a drive-in movie or something. Gas was also $0.25 a gallon then. By today’s standards this car runs like glue and guzzles gas. But at least it still looks good.

As long as there was Cold War tension there were museum quality car designs. Even England and France got in on the act with their Austin Healey, Jaguar MK II, and Renault Caravelle. I’d drive the Jag or the Healey in a heartbeat. I’m not picky.

But, alas, it seems the minute Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon Americans gave up on producing beautiful cars. The 70s were a confusing time for motor vehicles. And, in truth, it was a confusing time for America. How else can you explain the AMC Pacer? It screams “does my butt look big in this?” and I just don’t get it. Wayne of Wayne’s World drove a Pacer and it was a giant joke. These were not the cars that inspired the Beach Boy. And the 80’s weren’t much help.

Enter the DeLorean. In three of the greatest movies of all time this was a car that literally transcended time and space. But it was ugly and completely rubbish but it, too, looked out of this world (in an art gallery far, far away). This was supposed to be the car of the future. Until the company went belly up.

To be honest, I’m not looking forward to the cars of the future. I found a picture of a Mazda Kaan (see below) that looks like a Dyson vacuum cleaner. Hopefully it will never go to production. Even if it does look like a rocket ship. I’m sure it’s environmentally friendly and it probably comes part easily for cleaning and storage.

No, the future of car design doesn’t not excite me much. Nothing seems to compare to the design of the 50s/ 60s era. Perhaps it never will. You see, I live on what’s known as the Space Coast of Florida. I grew up here. Every other school field trip I took was to Kennedy Space Center. And now I’m counting down the days to the last ever shuttle flight. Or at least until funding is restored, which may not happen for years. So it seems America is out of what’s left of the Space Race.

It was good while it lasted. And some designs really have lasted. Take the Ford GT, for example. Originally built in the early 60s the GT40 looked fasted because it was fast. It may not have appeared as if it drove off the pages of a 194- Sci Fi poster but in most ways it looked out of this world without being alien. But here’s the thing, the overall design hasn’t changed much, it’s only been tweaked. The GT still exists today, proving great design really is timeless.


I just hope that time is somewhere around 1957.

What’s in a Name?

I’ve recently Googled my name. Fess up, you’ve done it too. We all have. I was bored and needed to fill five minutes of my time. Normally I would’ve Googled some book I heard about but I decided to shake things up a bit.

At this point I should probably introduce myself. My name is Kendel.

Growing up I heard every Ken Doll joke elementary school children could imagine. None were very clever. When someone calls out "Kendel" I’m the only one who turns around. But I do share my name with many law firms, towing companies, and even a winery. And, I suppose, one of the Kardashian’s younger sisters. Otherwise my name is fairly unique and I like that. Don’t get me wrong, traditional or Biblical names like Sarah and James are nice too. And at least they can find their names on souvenir key chains.

Recently Google went and got all fancy with its instantaneously generated searches. On the list of suggestions I noticed Kendal Castle. Naturally I zeroed in. I mean, who doesn’t want a castle with their name on it? It beats the hell out of key chain.


Looking at the pictures, the “castle” more or less resembles something I built at the beach one summer when I was nine. Designed on the spot and washed away just as fast. After reading about it for a minute I learned it’s located in Kendal, Cumbria, England. That got me thinking.

Typically my first name is someone else’s last name but I never thought about the last name really coming from anywhere in particular. Now, I’ve seen Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves enough times to know he’s Robin of Locksley because he’s from Locksley. Why is that important? Because he’s English and the English have surnames instead of last names.

Once upon a time, when Kendal Castle was new, people were “of Kendal”. Their surname was Kendal. This idea formed in all of about two seconds but I could have slapped myself upside the head for not piecing it together sooner.


So, I am Old English for the point where the River Kent meets the dale. And the more I read about my English namesake the more I like it. Catherine Parr – King Henry VIII’s sixth and final wife (he died, she kept her head) – was born there in 1512. There’s even a mint cake from the area. York Peppermint Patty, eat your heart out!

Further self analysis lead to an epiphany. Kendel, in fact, suits me. As a kid I loved Paddington Bear. I enjoy a proper cup of tea. Roundabouts don’t confuse me in the slightest. I always say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and wait quietly in line. In short, I exhibit quite a few British characteristics.

For the first time my love of Wang Chung makes since.

More Top Gear? Yes, Please.

As I may have mentioned before, I have mono. Thankfully I’m at the tail end of it all but there was a period of about three weeks when I was so bad water was difficult to drink. I didn’t care what was going on in the world. Howler monkeys and dandelions could have rained down to take over and I wouldn’t have carried less. All I wanted to do was sleep and watch Top Gear.

And that’s exactly what I did. For the least two months I’ve barely missed an episode on BBC America. Most of the time I don’t even know what Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, and James May are talking about. I’m not really a car person. But I dreamt I was.

Let me explain. Between naps I’d wake up in time for the show and then fall right back asleep when it was over. Repeat enough times – and take enough prescription cough medicine – and strange things start to happen. Things such as dreaming of Clarkson teaching me how to drive a supercar or James May explaining how something very important works and, my personal favorite, drag racing with Hammond.

One day I woke up and it took me a second to realize I wasn’t participation in one of the Top Gear’s signature challenges (I believe we were racing across a desert). Then I thought “damn, I wish I could be one of their challenges” and then I think I went back to sleep.

Now that my befogged head has started to clear I’ve started to think how that might work. I don’t just want to learn how to drive like a professional driver on a closed course. I want to learn the intricacies of an engine and the subtle nuances between ultra-luxury cars. Who better to teach me all this then three blokes who’ve been yammering on about cars longer than I’ve had my actual license?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete novice. My first car was a 1989 Ford Bronco II. Rubbish. My second, and current, is a 1991 Jeep Cherokee Laredo. I love it. It has no cup holders and the speedometer tells me it can only go 85 mph. For me that’s probably a good thing and it worked well for Dr. Brown. Between these two cars I learned how to check engine fluids and tire pressure. Theoretically I even know how to change a tire. But that’s pretty much it.

Terms like horse power or under-steer are logical enough to figure out but I want to know more. How, for example, does one calculate horse power? Why do some cars have better traction and others send drivers flying around the track like the Tea Cup ride at Disney?

Auto shop wasn’t offered at my high school. Well, if it was I didn’t know about it. If I could have enrolled in such a class I would have. I remember when I was four years old I received a 1957 Chevy Bel-Air Convertible in the form a Barbie car. I fell in love. And when I was six the movers lost our TV but somehow the remote made it to our new house. My parents let me take the now useless gadget apart and I fell in love again. To this day I’m fascinated by both cars and how stuff works.

True, there are plenty of books on the subject and I have a car so I could learn on my own. But let’s face it; my Jeep is not the Sistine Chapel of engineering.

In all honesty I think a challenge like this is a brilliant idea. It’s something completely different from anything Top Gear has ever done. Though, it does mean I’d have to move to England, a place I’ve always wanted to visit, for a period of time and live in the landscapes that inspired Turner and Whistler. Madness! But it also means a female presence on the often politically controversial show, at least for a (very) short period of time. And May, Clarkson, and Hammond get to look like geniuses while I get to expand my knowledge. Win – win.

How hard could it be?

I Built A House. Sort Of. (Reprise)

After watching the premier of the Hurston family episode on “Extreme Makeover” I just wanted to say a little something.

I cannot believe how fortunate I am I have taken part in helping, even in the smallest of ways, to build a house for such a deserving family. In this case deserving isn’t even an adequate word. Normally I get teary watching a regular episode – alright, I’ve balled my eyes out a couple of times – but this time was different.

This time I had a general idea, design wise, how the house would look completed and even watched a blurry grand reveal on-line. In effect I’d already seen an all-inclusive preview that would ordinarily spoil the TV viewing experience. But still, even with the editing and behind-the-scenes action, I hadn’t imagined the impact on the family. Or the impact the Hurston’s will have on many more worthy people.

Every single bit counts.

I Built A House. Sort Of.

Sunday night at 8 o’clock, 7 o’clock Central, a special edition of “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition” airs featuring the Hurston family. Why is it special? Simple, I helped build the house.

Okay, okay. I didn’t actually contribute to the physical construction of the building. Minor detail. I merely spent one shift volunteering and I can honestly say it was one of the best days I’ve ever spent almost breaking my back. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I should probably start at the beginning.

Last December an article ran in Florida Today announcing the show’s up and coming arrival to the Space Coast and hunt for local skilled and unskilled volunteers. After reading the paper two thoughts came to mind: (1) I can do that and (2) Does that mean I might end up on TV? Yikes.

Stage fright aside, I went to the website given in the article and signed my ‘unskilled’ self up for a shift. Then I waited and waited for my confirmation email. Turns out coordinating an effort such as, oh, building a house in seven days is kind of a like setting up an elaborate domino design so everything can fall precisely on queue. It takes loads of time to organize. Finally the email arrived in my inbox with the date, time, and location making me feel like I was entrusted with some secret mission.

On my assigned morning I got up before even the most enthusiastic barista. I drove up to Cocoa, past the check-in site and then found again, signed some forms, put on my snazzy new XL blue volunteer’s shirt and waited for the bus, hard-hat in hand, to take us to the build site. I had no clue what was awaiting me. The bus was clean so I took that as a good sign.

After a short bus ride through a maze of streets with the occasional house featuring a couple of horses in the back yard we got there and get to work. For six hours I unloaded scaffolding, relocated lumber and hauled away about 8,000,000 pounds of garbage from in and around the house. At some point I forgot all about the cameras.

Exhausted and desperate for a big juicy cheese burger I finished spilling sawdust all over myself and walked over to the catering tent. Sadly there were no cheese burgers. But the chicken was yummy and the rice was the best I’ve tasted. I sat outside to eat in the shade when I looked around and realized I was picnicking in the middle of a film set.

On television “Extreme Makeover” never accurately demonstrates to their viewers what a huge sacrifice filming has on the neighborhood. Down the street catering tents are pitched on someone’s front lawn. Another generous family transformed their yard into some kind of RV lot. It’s like walking out your front door and onto the set of “Desperate Housewives”. Nevertheless, it’s only for a week and grass grows back.

On my way home I contemplated how I spent my day. At first it didn’t seem like such a big deal. All I did was dump discarded drywall into a colossal dumpster until it reached maximum capacity and avoided using a Port-O-Potty. When I thought about what we did as a team, however, I got a little choked up.

Thousands of people came out over the course of a week, not just to make a TV show, but to change the lives of a deserving family. I’ve never met the Hurstons and I gather most of the volunteers were in the same boat. We were all just cogs in the machine. Some of us played bigger parts than others but we got the job done. And, I believe, ahead of schedule.

No. 1

Round about the end of last year I started thinking I must be one of the only people left on the planet without a blog. Of course I’m not. It only seems that way because these days it’s easy enough for your average Joe (or Josephine) to blog about fishing or their cat Fluffy just for the sake of writing about fishing or Fluffy. And then there are the folks who just want to share their opinions. They all seem to have blogs, too. Provided they have an internet connection.

Well, I’m pretty sure I fit in the latter group. Under the best of intentions I had planned on starting this blog in January. As you may have figured out, it’s already February.

Here’s what happened: I got mono. You know that thing teenagers get when they spend more time making-out than doing their homework. And, yes, I was paying attention that day in health class so I know kissing isn’t the sole manner of contracting mono but I’m a bit of a germaphobia and therefore thought I was safe. Wrong!

For most of January I was asleep. Or coughing. Or trying to sleep but couldn’t because I was coughing. Now, I’m not one to run to the doctor at the first sign of a runny nose. I’m already contradicting myself but I think you’re immune system benefits in the long run if a few germs sneak by. However, two weeks into the cold from Hell I caved and saw the doctor only to hear there was nothing to do but rest and wait it out.

So here I am, still waiting it out. And starting my blog.

Problem is I’m not really sure where this blog is heading. Eventually, I hope, this blog will level out into something that resembles well written thoughts on interesting subjects. But no matter what I write I urge you not to take anything too seriously, in spite of the title of this blog. Actually, the title was – shall we say – borrowed from the Phil Collins album. Why Phil Collins? Why not? It fits. Well, at least in my mind.

I also hope this damn mono goes away soon, never to be heard from again. No, seriously. Mono is possibly the most boring illness on Earth and the only things that’s brought me joy in the last few weeks has been Top Gear (more on that later) and pudding.

After that little rant I’ll just say this bit more. Blogging is perhaps one of the greatest products of the internet. Writing for pleasure gets lost after you finish school. Filling out paper work and the occasional “thank you” note takes its place. People get busy and forget what they miss. I’ve miss writing and I look forward to joining this part of the 21st century.

However, I still refuse to Twitter.