Free way cars and trucks

I used to hate people who identify themselves in large part by what they drive. I thought for a long time that this was a ridiculous notion, even knowing that so much of America's culture is was built around the automobile. I realize now that I was wrong. Even if you make an effort to NOT be defined by what you drive, other people will. It's inescapable. There's a certain psychology behind road rage that makes us so susceptible. The idea is that when someone cuts you off in traffic, or is driving in a way you don't like, it's easy to rage against them because in your mind, you're raging against a car (a "machine", if you will, hardee har har). We'd never think to act so rudely or aggressively if a similar mild intrusion or faux pas were to take place on a crowded public sidewalk, because we'd be dealing with an actual person, face to face. Mano y Mano. It's the same reason you can sit back and write me emails about how fucking stupid I am and how you'd like to punch me in the face, when in fact, were we having this conversation outside of a bar (for instance) you might still think I'm stupid, but you wouldn't say shit until I'm long gone so as to avoid getting actually punched (or counter punched, as it were).

Let's look at some examples of car to driver similarities. I drive a white, 2005 Chevy Cavalier. It does not go fast, is not exciting in any way, and I operate this car in the same fashion overly-cautious elderly people handle their Cadillacs. Slow and easy. Defensively. If you were to see me on the road, you might draw the following conclusions:

- This dude must be broke as hell
- What a fucking NERD!
- Here's a guy who doesn't take pride in his car
- This guy probably doesn't know shit about cars (mechanics), their design or their manufacturers
- He probably listens to NPR in the mornings on his way to the office where he'll pretend to be busy for the bulk of the day, ultimately getting in about 3 hours of actual "work".

You be correct to assume all of the above. Just as when you see someone in a "tricked out" mid-nineties model Honda Civic with chain link steering wheel, eight ball steering wheel knob (spinner), altered exhaust pipe(s) and a set of rims that costed three times what the car is worth, one might assume that the person is probably not good with finances, has a desperate, uncontrollable need to feel "cool", probably has a bad tattoo, drives like an asshole and does not like to read a good book before an 11 o'clock bed time.

I will say; while it's a bit douchey to have one, it's a little bit unfair to say that every guy with a gigantic truck, altered to look even bigger (i.e. lift kits and oversized tires) has a small penis. Unless of course, you're using the statement metaphorically, the "small penis" representing a wide array of social or emotional insecurities that must be covered up by obscenely huge trucks. Maybe the guy is a latent homosexual? Perhaps he's got a fear of women? Maybe he got picked on growing up?

Anyway, I understand that people are always going to assess (prejudge) certain parts of our identity in direct correlation with our automobiles. Might as well embrace that fact. Heck, maybe I'll even give some additional clues to my personality via my car. Something to the effect of a giant pair of glasses to sit on the front windshield with tape in the middle and a bow tie and cardigan sweater painted on the hood? That oughtta proclaim my geekdom loud and clear. That way, when people see me driving cautiously, signaling with both blinker and hand, they'll be more inclined to cut me some slack. Well, either cut me slack or throw more trash at me. Either way it lessens the ambiguity.

One final note. Those individuals who have neon lights anywhere on their cars (ground effects, around the licence plate, or anywhere inside) deserve every bit of mockery and ridicule they have already endured, and will continue to endure as long as they drive around with a light up sign loudly broadcasting, "I am a jackass, please berate me!"

Done.

Hum-fucking-bug! Didjya hear that, Cratchet?!

Humbuggery abounds, Echo Chamber. I'm haunted by visions of slowly navigating parking lots, the familiar apprehension of "Will they like it?", the crowds of snarling moms and grimacing in-laws, hating every second of life while wishing everyone "Happy Holidays". No one can afford it... everyone's broke, at least broker than they'd like to be right now. Hard to satisfy rampant, unchecked consumerism. Hard to satisfy a lifetime of guilt by giving that five bucks to a bum once a year.

Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men. These things were invented by clever writers. Most of the people you encounter on a daily basis wish you were dead. Especially with all this Yuletide cheer wafting through the air among cinnamon scented candles and imitation pine. Have another rum, Poppa Bing. It'll come in handy when you have to beat your wife and kids immediately proceeding this last take of "White Christmas".

Let's face it. We all hate Christmas time. Sure, if one happened to develop a mild feud with a family member sometime during the year, it's a time to reconsider those feelings and embrace family. Besides that though, it's a time of year we spend money we don't have on things the people we don't like don't even want. We over stay our visits, over eat, and over extend our emotional capacity trying to make everyone happy. The result is a deep and unruly hatred for our neighbors, bitterly expressed through a thin lacy veil of "Merry Christmas" and an under-the-breath symphony of expletives and insults unmatched by the most elite of the cuss word enthusiasts.

Yes. And a very merry Christmas to you sir.

Slayer rings, are ya listenin'
In the alley, puke is glistenin'.
A horrible sight
we're depressed tonight
crawling through a winter wonderland.

I know... that was totally gay. Hey... Guess what?! I just warmed you up a nice bowl of feces and milk - eat up!

That makes me think of

Here's the "That makes me think of..." game. Take an idea, then make a list of the things it makes you think of, even if they're dumb or obvious. Then take one thing from that list, and repeat the pattern. Keep going for a while, each time taking an idea from the newest list. When you're done, go back a look at the first idea see what kind of new perspective you get on it. Let's start with... :

Mustaches and turtlenecks:

a character
the 70's
comb overs
rockin out on the Casio keyboard
stuffing one's polyester pants
Cologne
Burt Reynolds

Rockin' out on the Casio:

gigs at barmitzvah's or cheesy lounges
a yellow tambourine
Milwaukee Beer
keyboard guitars
white guys playing funk

Milwaukee Beer:

bikers
Americana
the open road
dark taverns during the day
heartbreak
guns
fat people

heartbreak:

beauty is villainous
flowers
cheap hotels
basement studios in east Hollywood
Willie Nelson
universal pain

OK, that should be enough. Now if we go back and look at mustaches and turtlenecks, we can devise that just because some baby boomer picked up a Casio and turned it into a hobby; just because he practices in his basement with other fat guys blow drying hair over bald spots and drinking Milwaukee beer during breaks; just because they're getting pumped up for their big show Wednesday night (armature night) at "Classy Dave's Steak House and Lounge" doesn't mean that back in the late 70's just after 'Nam, that blond in the red dress and pearls didn't shatter his heart, just like that chick with nipple rings tattoos shattered yours.

So show some respect. Mustache and turtleneck guy is a person too. And his bass player rules.

I like being called "Dolly Angel". So what?

Good morning lonesome echo chamber of the cyber netherworld. How was everyone's Thanksgetting?

I went up to visit my cousins, Peter and Paulie Paruccini. That's right, fuckers. I have Italian cousins up North that'll be happy to sort you out should you come around fuckin' with mine. They're mom still calls me her little "Dolly Angel". Sure I'm a 27 year old man, but I gotta admit, it's endearing after all these years. Especially since the nicknames I get from other close friends and family usually allude to the fact that I'm ornery, lazy, and act like an old man who's mashed potatoes got cold at Country Buffet.

Most people complain complain complain about their family, but not me. I like 'em more than I like anyone else. They're just better people than most, and I feel lucky and honored just to be in their company. Sure they're crazy, but so what? I like it better that way. Besides, what could be more fun than blowing up old vacuums with dangerous Mexican fire works on some farm land out at the foot of the Butes with your brothers and two bad ass cousins? Childish? Maybe, but if you can't understand the allure of mindless destruction via unstable explosives, we're probably not going to be friends anyway, so I won't feel bad about asking you to politely exit stage and commence fucking yourself post haste.

Toodaloo.

Fruit at the bottom

Testes, testes.

I sure am hungry. For yogurt. Fruit at the bottom.

Last night a big fat Finnish mama came over to talk to me about life insurance and investment opportunities. It was a two hour presentation, that ended in way to launder your own money so as to keep it out of Uncle Sam's pocket. She talked about 401k's, CD's and mutual funds, and by the end of the night, she called me a Marxist. I took one of her stupid pamphlets, but only to get her to go away.

A Marxist?

Some time during the presentation, she came to a segment in which she demonstrated the basic theories of "Tax Now" (interest accruing savings accounts and public investments getting taxed at the end of every year) "Tax Later" (401k's and IRA's) and "Tax Never" (her glorious solution to all our problems). During this segment, she did a lot of confusing math, and ended up with this bottom line: "If you accrue $900,000 in a 401k plan, and take out a small percent to live on in retirement, the government will tax you $810,000." I must have had a disturbed look on my face immediately upon hearing this news because she said, "You have a disturbed look on your face."

"Yes," I said, "I am disturbed." Then I told her that I didn't buy it. It sounded to me like she was throwing a bunch of unverifiable numbers at me and creating a fictional scenario in order to demonstrate an alarming situation so that when she got to what she was selling, I would be so emotionally relieved to know that I could avoid this perilous fate at the hands of my government in my old age that I'd jump at the opportunity to buy up that heaping helping of financial salvation. Then I told her I didn't believe that our leaders would let that happen to old people. Corrupt as they were, I just couldn't see that level of blatant thievery happening, at least not to our own people. Maybe to Iraqis or Mexicans, but not red blooded, retired Americans.

Fruit at the bottom. I take a side in the great yogurt debate. My girlfriend eats that Yoplait, whipped kind of yogurt. Me... I find it well worth the extra effort of stirring the little cup so that the boogery lumps of real fruit are well mixed... but I'm no Marxist.