This is not Nam, Dude, There are rules.

The following is part of the conversation I had today with the random stranger I asked to help me pump gas. Actually, I didn't ask him to help me pump gas, I asked him to ask the clerk inside the gas station to come out and help me, but this guy volunteered instead.

Picture: middle-aged guy; beer gut; dirty jeans and sweatshirt; sunglasses; scraggily blonde hair jutting out underneath a shitty Oakland Raiders ball cap; two days of white beard stubble.

My side of the conversation consisted mostly of "Yeah?" "Really?" "Wow." "Crazy." etc.

Him: Yeah man, my buddy came back from 'Nam. Couldn't walk. Had this Charger. He and another guy - had a Torino I think - He got into all sorts of shit with that thing. Tearing all over the place...and this was back in like '74,'75 when cars really kicked ass. Cops chasing after him.

Me: It had hand controls?

Him: Yeah man, not like this (referring to my van). It was silver, I think. The other guy had a Torino. But my buddy, he got Agent Orange and died a couple years later.

Him: I can't believe I'm 50, man. I can still ride a bike 10 miles without stopping. But I hurt all over, man. I never thought I lived to be 50. We used to do all kinds of drugs and shit...acid, orange acid, pot, mescaline...I still smoke pot. Yeah man, I've been smoking weed everyday since I was 13. Yeah, the only time I stopped smoking pot was when I was in jail. Yeah man, I got arrested and was in jail for four months. Couldn't get any pot.

Me: Imagine that.