Friday, October 14, 2011

Here's My New Ride

I haven't seen Evan since the last century. He and Linda came down from Toronto in his Escort GT to see a local formal garden. That was Linda's gig; gardens, so we all dutifully piled into the Explorer and spent the day admiring orchids. Which is to say that the girls talked flora and fauna while we compared relative horsepower of what we were kicking around in.

Today its just he and I and a country road in my usual ride. I've upgraded since we last met; the Ford Probe in "write me up a ticket officer red" is now a subdued grey Nissan 370-Z. A little silly for the day to day use I employ it in. Traffic light to traffic light stop and go, its a wasteful application of too much power using too much fuel. Reminds me of the day I was following one of our company's senior officers up the main drag into town. With a four cylinder Mazda engine in a Ford chassis, I basically paced a Ferrari 308. It wasn't until he hit open road that he dropped a gear and the base roar of the Ferrari made me pull over, drop trou and consider my shriveled though fuel injected poor excuse for a member. A senior VP, I was never sure what he did until I watched him lean in the CEO's door to wish her a good morning. Aha, that was it, Senior VP in charge of friendly greetings.

So we still aren't in Ferrari class, but its a respectable car. Good enough to get a lowered window thumbs up from a fellow driver in a GTR last winter. We both stepped off into a green light together and the happy burble of all that torque most certainly pissed off a Prius pusher two cars back somewhere.

"Where we off to?" Evan asks as he fires up an unfiltered Camel, my old brand.

"Can't smoke in the car, man." I've quit since 1995 though I miss them dearly.

He puts his smoke out in the driveway and climbs in. I get in, buckle up and push the engine start.

"Nice sound." Three hundred and twenty five horses pulse through the stock exhaust. If you need a GlassPak, you're pushing too tiny an engine.

"North of here is my favorite road. State 82, then left off into horse country. Two lane smooth blacktop with a couple of straightaways and some 15 mph marked curves to test your downshift skills." And indeed, so it is. If you floor Kathleen (I name all my cars and this one is tagged for a former girlfriend. Like the original, the car is exotic, exciting and sexy but treat it just the slightest bit wrong and it will dump you in a ditch) she'll roar to the challenge but she's got oversteer to kill in corners.

Evan hasn't buckled up.

"What's the worst that could happen?"

"You've got a point."

Its a glorious day and a glorious ride and we all perform amazingly well. There isn't a single lane bridge to take Kathleen airborne the way I sent the Probe skyward last time we raced.

Afterwards, we come home to the front porch for a drink and a cigar. Evan used to send me blended Ontario tobacco every few months. In return, I'd package up a few cartons of Camels knowing that his hacking cough had me worried every time we talked on special occasions. My birthday, the fourth of July, Canada day would find us on the phone catching up and hoping we'd see each other in person soon.

"I've got a treat for you. A couple of Cubans I snuck in from Berlin."

"You know that we can get Cubans in Canada, no problem."

"Didn't think of that. Well, take them in the spirit they are offered."

"Much obliged."

"Geez, when'd we last talk? Oh six?"

"Oh five. I was pretty sick in '06"

"I remember. Well, not you being sick, but I remember the call from Linda that you had died."

There's an uncomfortable silence. I break it.

"You know, if I could have you back for a day, I think I'd even let you smoke in the car."

"Got a little secret for you. We'll ride again. Won't be for a while. But we'll ride again my friend."

Friday, October 07, 2011

In Case You're Counting...

That last one was post number three hundred.

Six years, three hundred posts. Who knew I had that kind of staying power?

Thanks for reading.

Bunny on.

Opposing the Opposite

Here it is October already and the shine is off the new school clothes and everybody's hunkered down in classes no doubt sexting nudie ex-girlfriend pictures off to the big old internet.

About the time I was of that age, back just before the Cretaceous era, I was sitting in a class on Moral Instruction (for it was thusly titled and I clearly picked up not a thing) when a schoolmate whispered that he had been playing down by the river and found...a condom!

"Heh heh heh." says I and dutifully that evening I snuck to the bookcase, drew out the dictionary and looked up what the hell a condom was.

Not that I was any measure of pure, just a little clueless. Concerning the opposite sex, that has followed me through life. On a spectrum of engagement there are on one end the red hot lovers and paramours, there's most of the rest of you, there's me and then, just off to my left there's probably the Pope.

So I got around to women carnally a little later in life. I did manage to very clearly avoid the pitfalls of teenage pregnancy which I've heard is closely tied to teenage fucking.

Parents have a problem with that. I can imagine why. Poor dad who has to look away when his daughter raises the back of her sweater to Mom to ask if there's an unsightly blemish (as I only have a stepdaughter, I generally drive to another county at moments such as these) now is expected to swallow whole some spotty faced underachiever wanting to get his little girl completely in the buff?

I'm thinking there's a series of challenges to that. Perhaps start with some questions on background, grades, ambitions and intent and then a modest physical display of commitment.

Shall we say, hole up in an airless box until you're 22?

But I've got the answer to young teen tomfoolery that can only lead to petting, groping, fucking and ultimately the sin of...dancing.

I say we marry them off.

Somewhere around twelve or thirteen when the first blush of "gosh he's cute" or "shucks, she's all soft and squeezy, not like you guys in football practice" we link them up, perform the rituals and get them good and married.

This way, the worry's off us, they get the full benefit of matrimony and everybody's set.

Until two years in, they divorce.

Then young he can come back home and brood in his room with sixty percent of everything he's ever had in life back in the little pink pony bedroom they used to share. Don't forget that most of his paper route tips have to auto deposit into her account. For fun, you can think about what you'd like to do but ultimately, since that bitch got the Schwinn and the X Box, I hope you like hanging on the phone with your guy friends reminiscing about when we could just pick up and have a one on one basketball game whenever we wanted.

Seventeen and divorced, he's not going to want to go talk to girls. Hey guys, how about we do some rock climbing, just us?

Sure, she'll have the bike and the video games but they're just daily reminders of the broken promise of love she'll carry for the rest of her life. He was charming, attentive, dapper but ultimately a cold self centered bastard who only wanted to come home to dinner every night and then climb into a bottle of chocolate milk. And they're all like that, just ask Tiffany down the street.

Friends will call suggesting a nice game of "playing house?" I've got a better idea; how about we start a food bank or a Sub S retailing art supplies on line like we always wanted to. Do you wanna read my play? Its almost finished.


That'll cool 'em off.

Bunny on.

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