It seems like a low percentage shot, though. Maybe this is for missed connections that you hope stay missing? Continue reading “Road Trip Notes: Craigslist for Nomads”
or Galpin when you need them?
Curbhunter: it’s not for the weak or stupid or poor. Unlike so many other things in my life lately, two of three IS bad. This guy seems to have avoided all three:
- not poor, because: year old Range Rover
- not weak, because balls enough to park a Range Rover outside the shithole complex that makes Mesa Ridge Apartments look like luxury condos.
- Maybe that is stupid. So is overnight parking in general. But look in the front seat! A GIANT PUKE BUCKET! That is
malice aforethought Eagle Scout like preparation. You can’t always find a Hill Auditorium trash can when you need one.
Russell Something-or-other drove a Fiero like this. Drive-By Shootings: The Lesser Lights.
We would call it “the Chevette of 1980s mid-engined ‘sports’ cars,” except that it involves Russell the stoner. We nearly got in a fight with him about his previous car, a Pontiac T1000. We called it a Chevette by any other name: he was adamant that not only was it NOT merely a re-badged POS, it had “completely different wiring” and components.
Uh, no, sorry. Go hit that bong again, dude.
So, we’ll just say “Oh look” and be glad this one doesn’t have a JC Whitney vinyl bra like Russell’s.
In every sense.
I’m driving the
thing that is not a redRam 1500 with a Hemi and a touchscreen that I REALLY want car to the office. Around the corner, I see a parked Camry with a critical ass implosion. It’s like my neighbors’ kids after one of their constant DR calls. Plus it’s a Camry: a crash is an improvement.
But I keep driving. Slowly. The debris field around the car is unsettling. Then I remember. I know this story. I lived it. It’s actually never that far out of mind. Continue reading “Too Close To Home”
are doomed to repeat it. Sometimes, so are the people who remember it.
So too with my kid. Kid2 just got a learner’s permit. Kid 2 has long ago driven a Continental in an empty parking lot. Today it was more lots and then a couple of cautious forays onto the street.
The big difference? A stick shift that was not a total fail. Also, a cop.
Oh shit. A cop. He was looking at us. We need to switch places.
Dad, I’ve got my permit. We’re legal.
Sorry. Force of habit.
About a month ago, we noticed some newspaper attention for a car show we go to every month. Concurrently, the “usual suspects” (whatever the fuck that is supposed to mean) changed the name of this thing from “Cars and Coffee” to “Scottsdale Motorsports Gathering.” The new name seemed a bit pretentious; the media coverage portended more everything in the following months.
And it happened. Continue reading “Eat the Rich: We Called It”