(Now that I have an actual uninterrupted thirty minutes at the computer at the same time as I have energy to actually do something other than stare at it...)
The other night I ran out for errands. A few miles from home, I pulled up to a light, second in line, and watched the two front cars doing that rock-creep motion we all know and love, when the cars are doing an amateur's version of trying to get the jump on the light. A'course, in this city, that means doing the rock-crawl-vroom at about one-quarter speed (drag-racing in this city seems to consist of who can get to 35mph within the first mile, wooo, you go, people). The light turns green, and I speed up, expecting the two cars ahead of me to (however slowly and gradually) get up to the road's posted 50mph speed limit, then we'd unbunch and I could do the 2mi home with no significant thinking involved.
Except... maybe a hundred feet away from the light, and the right-lane car isn't doing more than 30; the car in front of me keeps tapping its brakes. ( Serious whisky-tango, people... followed by a demonstration of how car-geekery infects all activities, even the most inane. )
This is why I don't like Easy Rider magazine. They always insist on putting some chick in the picture, and I can't see the damn bike. It's not that I mind chicks in skimpy outfits, far from it, but I do mind -- bigtime -- when the inflated boobs and airbrushed ass are in the way. Hello, get her out of the way, put her behind the bike or something, because I can't see anything of the bike!
Sigh.
And by this point, who knows what the RPG scene is doing, I'm too busy thinking, "someone would quote from this song? Clearly they've got no sense of decency when it comes to vehicular integrity, to publicly admit they'd actually listen to a band that so is totally the lack for car-fu..."
I ended up going back out and patting my car gratefully. It may not be a Jaguar but it does run consistently and well (especially for its age), and after ten years, I can still holler out the window at slow-moving morons to eat my German dust.
[I suspect it's possible the only person on my list who'd get every detail of this frothing moment would be Muffie. Oi, where has Muffie been? I'm wasting away without her wonderful rants...]
The other night I ran out for errands. A few miles from home, I pulled up to a light, second in line, and watched the two front cars doing that rock-creep motion we all know and love, when the cars are doing an amateur's version of trying to get the jump on the light. A'course, in this city, that means doing the rock-crawl-vroom at about one-quarter speed (drag-racing in this city seems to consist of who can get to 35mph within the first mile, wooo, you go, people). The light turns green, and I speed up, expecting the two cars ahead of me to (however slowly and gradually) get up to the road's posted 50mph speed limit, then we'd unbunch and I could do the 2mi home with no significant thinking involved.
Except... maybe a hundred feet away from the light, and the right-lane car isn't doing more than 30; the car in front of me keeps tapping its brakes. ( Serious whisky-tango, people... followed by a demonstration of how car-geekery infects all activities, even the most inane. )
This is why I don't like Easy Rider magazine. They always insist on putting some chick in the picture, and I can't see the damn bike. It's not that I mind chicks in skimpy outfits, far from it, but I do mind -- bigtime -- when the inflated boobs and airbrushed ass are in the way. Hello, get her out of the way, put her behind the bike or something, because I can't see anything of the bike!
Sigh.
And by this point, who knows what the RPG scene is doing, I'm too busy thinking, "someone would quote from this song? Clearly they've got no sense of decency when it comes to vehicular integrity, to publicly admit they'd actually listen to a band that so is totally the lack for car-fu..."
I ended up going back out and patting my car gratefully. It may not be a Jaguar but it does run consistently and well (especially for its age), and after ten years, I can still holler out the window at slow-moving morons to eat my German dust.
[I suspect it's possible the only person on my list who'd get every detail of this frothing moment would be Muffie. Oi, where has Muffie been? I'm wasting away without her wonderful rants...]