Stay young at heart, reminisce often, play at work, live the music. Gen X-er, 80s kid, secret slacker. Always have fun - giggle, snort and guffaw through life.
My car just turned 102,000 miles. (Sigh) It seems like just yesterday when she (yes she) and I were cruising around the Westside with the open sunroof, new car smell, with only 70 miles on her odometer. I hope she sticks around for another 100,000, so I can pass her on to my daughter Jordan, who’ll be driving in 2 years. At least I know she’s reliable and will keep Jordan safe.
As close as I feel to my current car, a white 2003 Toyota Highlander, I have the best memories of my 1989 Toyota Camry. That car and I had been through ALOT together. Sad stuff like bad dates and failed relationships. But plenty of fun, youthful times too, like driving with friends along the sunny coast with the open sunroof and singing “Brown-Eyed Girl” at the top of our lungs.
Most of my cars had good juju. They weren’t evil Christines (as in the Stephen King book/movie) trying to kill me or set me up for a bad accident. My flat tires always happened where help was nearby.
Looking back at my first car, a yellow 1972 VW Beetle, kind of reminds me of life and the aging process. My brother let me have it in 1983 when he left for college. It was cute and youthful-looking with a new paint job. But over the next 4 years that I used it, it really fell apart. I don’t know, maybe it missed my brother.
First, the window handle broke off. For you youngsters, we used to have to manually roll down the windows by making a cranking motion with a lever. It’s similar to dialing a rotary phone or using a manual return on a typewriter. Oh, never mind.
Eventually , the rearview mirror popped off, the glove compartment refused to close. Alot of things stopped working: the speedometer, odometer, and gas gauge. It was tricky trying to not get a speeding ticket or not run out of gas. And of course all the big repairs came along: brake jobs, CV joints, alternators, until it was finally time to say good-bye and just let it flatline.
But my sad little VW taught me alot about people getting old too. For example, the parts started creaking, herky-jerky movements, alignment problems, smelly emissions, fluid leakage, you get the idea. But I sure get attached to my cars, just like how I’m sentimental about this old body. I like it the way it is right now and I’m not looking forward to the day I gotta put it out to pasture.
Meanwhile, I’m going to live it up more than ever before, squeeze every bit of fun in, and get the most mileage out of life. Come with?
Now it’s your turn. Tell me a car story and/or answer the following:
What was your first car?
Did you have a favorite car and why was it special?
What’s your Dream Car and who’s your Dream Passenger?
If you feed one homeless person, you will feed 10 others. They’re like pigeons and seagulls to one crumb of bread. Soon you are in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Run!
Posted around the perimeter of my office building are homeless people. Dey be my Homies – Yo, and dey know me, Ho! (Just tryin’ out my new rapper persona, like Joaquin Phoenix.)
Seriously though, it doesn’t help that my office sits above a food court, where Homies conveniently congregate, hoping for a donated meal. Well, I can’t keep breaking my shrinking budget to keep them fed. So lately, I’ve actually been trying to out-maneuver them by ducking behind trees and doing the low-crawl under benches and tables. I’m thinking about buying some camo-wear and tying small, leafy branches around my head.
(Theme Song from the TV Show Mission Impossible)
The other day, I was coming back from the courthouse and didn’t have my side-door key with me. Rats! That meant I had to walk through the food court to get to the front office door. Since I felt like grabbing a cup of coffee anyway from Carl’s Jr., it didn’t seem like that big a deal.
Then – I remembered! No-Speak Sad Sack W.C. Fields might be sitting at his usual perch on the stairs down to the food court. This guy never talks. He’s very sad-looking and indeed resembles W.C. Fields.
I tiptoed cautiously, figuring if I so much as catch a glimpse of his tattered shoes, I’d moonwalk away and go around the block if I had to.
Okay, no N-SSSW.C.F – but there was another homeless guy there. Maybe he was saving No-Speak’s spot for him. (Hey, I don’t know what kind of business arrangements these people make.) Anyhoo, I said hello as I walked by, relieved that I wasn’t going to get shaken down for my milk…er, coffee money.
Then I heard, “Excuse me.” I instantly froze like a statue, with my arm in a half-swing, begging for a pigeon to land on it and make Homie think I really WAS a statue.
No such luck that day. “Excuse me,” said The Smelly One, “can you please buy me some food?” I smiled weakly like a…weakling, “Sure. May I take your order?”
“Yeah, I’ll have a Double-Bacon Western Cheeseburger with some large fries. And can I get a large Dr. Pepper with that? If not, I’ll take an orange soda.”
Got it, Mr. Smelly-AND-Greedy One. Be right back. (Dude was a total Bogart!)
As soon as I turned towards Carl’s Jr, I couldn’t stop smiling and shaking my head because I’m such a pushover shmuck. So I get there and my regular server Ray started to grab my usual coffee for me. Ray knows I don’t eat much at Carl’s. I get my coffee and, only occasionally, a bacon and egg burrito, NO CHEESE. EVER. (I have this thing about melted cheese, can’t stand it except on nachos.)
So I cleared my throat, feeling oddly embarrassed, and ordered the damn Double-Bacon Cheeseburger with large fries and a large Dr. Pepper. Ray looked at me like this:
Then he looked at my belly, expecting to see a forming fetus holding a fork and knife. And he repeated my order to me, TWICE. “Cheese? You sure?”
Yeah, yeah! And a coffee, please – to make my frickin’ headache go away.
Bottom line: Like Meals-on-Wheels, I delivered to The Smelly One. If I had skates on and 50’s music playing in the background, I would’ve felt much better.
I asked Homie his name. It’s Edward. And he’s in the Witness Protection Program. The FBI set him up for a new job up in San Francisco as a postal worker, and he’s just waiting for the signal to go up there. Uh huh. Okay Edward. Enjoy your lunch, while I recalculate my food budget for the rest of the week. The weird thing is, I haven’t seen him since.
Meanwhile, this is what I came upon as I arrived at my office at 6 a.m. today: (just in case you think I’m kidding.)
Hi everyone! I bet you’re all wondering who won the Act Like A Kid Contest. I almost forgot what it was called, since I referred to it by so many different contest names! And I BET that’s the reason everyone must have gotten confused, befuddled and paralyzed about what to do to act like a kid (despite my numerous suggestions – and nagging).
Then I thought, wait a minute, I bet everyone submitted photos and somehow my spamblocker ate them all up. So I checked:
Hmm, I was really hoping that’s what it was. But as you can see, nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. That’s okay, I never get sad or bothered by the hollow, empty loneliness that is my email In Box. Really, it just reminds me of when I was 6 years old and my family lived in South-Central Los Angeles. I only had imaginary friends to play with because the neighborhood was no Sesame Street. It was more like Shootme Street.
Actually, I dug through all the vast…nothing-ness and found some photos after all! Silly me, they were there all along in some other dimension that exists only in my head. So here are the results.
Who knew that Jim at CoolStuffforDads.com was such a young entrepreneur! I think Jerry Yang of Yahoo was also only 9 when he started his empire.
Old School from Kickin’ It Old School submitted a drawing of him jumping rope with a friend. Hmm, I don’t know if that should count as documentation that you were actually jump-roping. I guess I could climb Mount Everest and draw a picture about it, then tell everyone that’s what it looked like up at the summit.
So I did ask her to resubmit a real photo. GrannyAnn, I was truly impressed! You can never judge a person just by their name.
Then there’s Joe from 70s-Child, yes, the same Joe that said his neighbors might kick his ass if they saw him doing a cartwheel or skipping rope. Then he goes and shows off his jumping-rope with a back flip combination.
All in all, I give everyone credit (including those who read this blog but are too shy to comment) for simply considering, even for a moment, that there IS still a kid inside you. So, even though no one submitted photos, I know that you’re all out there being goofy and silly. And SOMEDAY, you’ll email me that picture so I can still put it up on my Playground page.*checks email again*
There are many more of you out there; don’t worry I’ll find those pictures of you. Til next time…stay young, stay goofy. (I think I need a better sign off.)
It’s Sunday again, which means I’m back at work tomorrow, unless I get really sick (cough) or something. Maybe I should roll around a gas station bathroom floor. But that’ll give me syphilis when I’m actually shootin’ for just a sinus headache. Something that gets me the day off, but would realistically allow me to pop some low-level meds and still be able to righteously enjoy the day.
Well, at least that’s how I’d explain my miraculous recovery, just in case I run into someone from work when I’m at Six Flags on the rollercoaster. Or sunbathing at the beach. You know, sunlight stimulates production of Vitamin D, which makes me healthier so I could go back to work the next day, energetic with a tan. That’s me – a model employee.
As I’ve mentioned before, I just hate being at a job when there are so many more appealing places to be and things to do. That’s what so tough about living near the coast, so many damn beaches everywhere you turn. Couldn’t they put the beaches where they’re really needed, like the desert with all that pre-delivered sand?
How about in Iraq? If they had California-type beaches in Baghdad, that war would be sooo over. And all the factions would get together with a BBQ (no pork) and listen to the Beach Boys all day. Women would be in burka swimsuits or full body wetsuits, which conveniently eliminates the need for sunscreen. The men would turn their turbans into beach towels. They’d ride around in dune buggies instead of car bombs. We’re talking Baywatch mecca. Life could be so good if there was a Malili-bubu (Malibu) Beach in Baghdad. Oh yeah, I’m feeling the good vibrations already…
Most of my cars had good juju. They weren’t evil Christines (as in the Stephen King book/movie) trying to kill me or set me up for a bad accident. My flat tires always happened where help was nearby. 
But my sad little VW taught me alot about people getting old too. For example, the parts started creaking, herky-jerky movements, alignment problems, smelly emissions, fluid leakage, you get the idea. But I sure get attached to my cars, just like how I’m sentimental about this old body. I like it the way it is right now and I’m not looking forward to the day I gotta put it out to pasture.
