Thursday, July 27, 2006
There's a time in every old person's life, say, after their second stroke or fifth broken hip, when death seems inevitable. They realize it. Their family realizes it and starts making preparations. Caskets are purchased. Wills are finalized. The soon-to-be-dead move into rest homes and hospices where they spend 20 hours a day in the same room with the thermostat pumped up to 83 degrees, watching soap operas that no longer turn them on and game shows they don't understand. They're not living anymore, they're simply existing.
My car is simply existing these days. If I could, I'd check it into a nice rest home, where it could sit in a covered garage wearing a woolen sweater, wondering when the grandkids will visit again. It's not that my car is terribly old. It's only a '94, going on a mere 13 years. But it's not the age that kills, it's the mileage. 142,000 and counting (but I only put on about 30,000 of those). If I get tired of listening to the radio, I can simply roll down my windows and be greeted by dozens of individual squeaks, groans, and clanks, all potential repairs for the near future. The paint is starting to flake, and the interior fabric is fading after 13 years of intense Utah sun bleaching. It runs like crap. It looks like crap. It's never been cool. It's never attracted ladies. Yet, I have a strange sentimental attachment to the pathetic piece of tin. There have been dozens of women seduced, miraculously and successfully, on its worn seats. It's served as a portable dressing room countless times. I have fond memories of trying to fit my skis inside and then dodging them as they roll around the entire trip up to the resort. I enjoy making fun of myself for driving it. It's a big part of my loser machismo. The farthest I've ever driven it from Ogden is down to Lehi on New Year's Eve, since I've always been afraid to go any farther.
I've been dealing with car salesmen a lot lately, since it's time to get a new ride. As I was driving home last night after visiting three different dealerships, I realized that a new car is actually a burden, not a luxury. You have to remember to lock a new car. You have to put up those gay sun shades in the summer, and wax the car twice a year, and wash it every few weeks, and worry about it getting stolen or burglarized, and fill it with premium, and get scheduled oil changes, and flush the transmission once a year, and vacuum it every week, and make sure no one eats or drinks inside it, and scotchguard the interior, and buy those stupid little air fresheners that look like pine trees, and get some kind of witty license plate holder, and install a six CD changer in the trunk, and add a ski rack so I look like yuppie trash, and put a sticker of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes peeing on something in the back window, and get a personalized license plate, and install a killer stereo system that rivals that of the negros down on the 'vard, and get the windows tinted, and get a spoiler to reduce drag and add lift, and get some fog lights installed, and buy some nitrous oxide boosters for those occasional run-ins with the law, and get a sweet racing stripe down the side, and two-tone the paint job, and get some hydraulics so I can go pimpin', and get a primered hood to prove I have street racing cred, and go cruisin' every Saturday night looking for easy chicks, and bang those easy chicks in the back seat while covertly looking out for cops, and deal drugs out of the trunk...ok, I might be getting ahead of myself. I have to find a car worth buying first. Do chicks dig horses?
My car is simply existing these days. If I could, I'd check it into a nice rest home, where it could sit in a covered garage wearing a woolen sweater, wondering when the grandkids will visit again. It's not that my car is terribly old. It's only a '94, going on a mere 13 years. But it's not the age that kills, it's the mileage. 142,000 and counting (but I only put on about 30,000 of those). If I get tired of listening to the radio, I can simply roll down my windows and be greeted by dozens of individual squeaks, groans, and clanks, all potential repairs for the near future. The paint is starting to flake, and the interior fabric is fading after 13 years of intense Utah sun bleaching. It runs like crap. It looks like crap. It's never been cool. It's never attracted ladies. Yet, I have a strange sentimental attachment to the pathetic piece of tin. There have been dozens of women seduced, miraculously and successfully, on its worn seats. It's served as a portable dressing room countless times. I have fond memories of trying to fit my skis inside and then dodging them as they roll around the entire trip up to the resort. I enjoy making fun of myself for driving it. It's a big part of my loser machismo. The farthest I've ever driven it from Ogden is down to Lehi on New Year's Eve, since I've always been afraid to go any farther.
I've been dealing with car salesmen a lot lately, since it's time to get a new ride. As I was driving home last night after visiting three different dealerships, I realized that a new car is actually a burden, not a luxury. You have to remember to lock a new car. You have to put up those gay sun shades in the summer, and wax the car twice a year, and wash it every few weeks, and worry about it getting stolen or burglarized, and fill it with premium, and get scheduled oil changes, and flush the transmission once a year, and vacuum it every week, and make sure no one eats or drinks inside it, and scotchguard the interior, and buy those stupid little air fresheners that look like pine trees, and get some kind of witty license plate holder, and install a six CD changer in the trunk, and add a ski rack so I look like yuppie trash, and put a sticker of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes peeing on something in the back window, and get a personalized license plate, and install a killer stereo system that rivals that of the negros down on the 'vard, and get the windows tinted, and get a spoiler to reduce drag and add lift, and get some fog lights installed, and buy some nitrous oxide boosters for those occasional run-ins with the law, and get a sweet racing stripe down the side, and two-tone the paint job, and get some hydraulics so I can go pimpin', and get a primered hood to prove I have street racing cred, and go cruisin' every Saturday night looking for easy chicks, and bang those easy chicks in the back seat while covertly looking out for cops, and deal drugs out of the trunk...ok, I might be getting ahead of myself. I have to find a car worth buying first. Do chicks dig horses?
# posted by RBW @ 8:25 AM 
