Due to circumstances waaaay beyond my control, I'm putting my blog on hiatus for an unspecified amount of time.
If you look around, you'll probably notice certain posts have been deleted, never to see the light of day again. Some with especially good reason.
Don't worry, I'll be back with new content in the distant future. That said, check back every once in a while and pay a visit to some of my older posts. It'll be fun, trust me.
Anyway, the ride was fun while it lasted.
J.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Fear And Loathing At The Dealership
I desperately needed a new car.
My Battle Wagon, my beat to hell, bloody-faced version of Mel Gibson from “Braveheart” was on it’s last leg. Like Sir William Wallace at the end of that film, it was on it’s back, having it’s guts ripped out for an audience.
To compound things further, I had to use it to haul my equally non operational/dependable motorcycle back to Maine. It’s here that I decided I should test the strength, not only of my vehicle’s suspension and chassis, but my relationship with The Lady as well.
We’d been meaning to get to Maine since June. Schedule conflicts, etc, kinda made that impossible. She works in an industry that, in the summer months, doesn’t give a lot of time to take off, whereas I, being military, only have a certain amount of time I can be gone for. Literally, things need to be scheduled well in advance if we want to do anything fun for an extended period of time.
So I asked her a week or so ago if she wanted to come with me to drop the bike and the truck off at my parent’s place, all under the assumption that I would be getting a new vehicle of some sort by the end of the few days we’d be up there. She agreed, obviously not knowing what she’d be getting into.
Because, how better to test your relationship with a woman than by taking an ill conceived road trip to your parents house in a vehicle that may or may not die on the three hour drive there?
The trip started off with drama, of course. She drops her car off at her mother’s, for fear that it’ll be towed if we leave it unattended at the parking lot for too long, and we ride over to our house. I want to be on the road no later than noon, because it’s a haul and especially in my little fucked up S-10, it takes a lot out of me when I drive for long extended periods. The science behind this is that the sooner we’re on the road, the sooner we’re off.
But, The Lady doesn’t want to go to Maine without any cash on her. I don’t blame her. Her boss, however, doesn’t have her pay check ready. Also, apparently, he’s too cheap to have direct deposit.
I mean, it’s only the second half of 2008.
But the situation is fine for now; I still have the business of loading my Triumph into the back of my truck. I head out to my truck and bike, take the ramps out, set up everything. When it’s all said and done, I realize that I’ve really only given myself about ten feet of space to work my bike up the 45 degree angled aluminum ramps, with only about six to seven feet of bed space in the back of the truck. I would literally have to gun the shit out of my bike to get it up the ramp (because worst case scenario would be me not getting enough speed, getting the front wheel up in the bed, but then the ramps kicking out, making me fall backwards and ultimately underneath the 500 lb bike, breaking my spine.). I back the bike as far back as it’ll go, which is on the edge of payment and a grassy area, and start to rev it. I keep working the throttle and clutch, goosing and feathering it, and when I feel the rear tire start to spin on it’s own, with my hand clutching hard down on the front brake, I give it as much gas as I can.
White smoke starts to spew from the tire, as she begins to screech on the pavement under me. I can feel the back end starting to swing a little to the left and I adjust my body weight to compensate. Come on, I think to myself, nice and easy, straight shot up the ramp.
This is the most nerve racking thing I can think of doing. The ramp is so light and the bike is so heavy. My tail gate could literally snap off at any moment and send the bike straight down at a high rate of speed, crashing it’s fairing and forks into the back of the bed and sending me over the handlebars and through the rear window of my cab. With the smoke and screeching building, I drop the brake and clutch at the same time and launch forward towards the ramp.
I hit the ramp, and for a very brief moment I’m fucking airborne. There isn’t even time for me to really register this thought before I crash back down into the bed, my front tire kicking a giant dent into the back of the cab, below the window. The tire’s still screeching and smoking, throttle’s stuck open, and the horrible sound of an engine trying to tear itself apart is filling the air.
I clutch in, kick her down to neutral and straight up before putting down my stand and shutting it down. I look back over my shoulder, breathing heavy, sweat in my eyes, as the ramp is flat on the ground, no longer attached to the back of my truck.
“Jesus Christ,” I pant. I dismount, and shakily put the tie-down ratchet straps into formation and compress my forks for the ride. Behind the truck is a littering of spent burnt rubber shavings from the tire.
I give myself a second to relax, breathe in and breathe out, calm my shaking hands. Just then, The Lady rounds the corner and I paste on a smile to try to hide the “Holy Shit” look that I’m sure I have anyway.
“Boss Man doesn’t have the checks,” she says. She’s pissed. If she gets on this ride with me, she’s going to be a total tyrant, if this is the attitude she’s going to start with. She’s already stressed out about an extended meeting of my parents (she previously met them for about five minutes when they came down earlier in the Spring) so with all that going on, I didn’t want an upset stomach from her belly aching, if you dig.
“Hey,” I start. “I don’t want you stressed out. This trip is going to be a lot of stress, and I don’t want you starting off this way.”
She gives me a look, and a sigh.
“I’m not stressed at you, it’s just Boss Man is a douchetard,” and she goes on for fifteen minutes explaining past experiences in how she’s been upended on pay checks and such. She ends with “I love the guy, he’s been great to me, but for all I do around there, all I’m asking is that he pays me on time.”
We go to her bank, and then hit up a Burger King, and we’re on the road.
Things mellow out after a little while. She’s reading one of my Palaniuks, curled up in the seat wearing only a string bikini top and a pair of sweats. I’m in shorts and flip flops, Calvin Klein t shirt, sunglasses, singing along with classic rock hits on the ipod, getting her exasperated looks from over the tops of her sunglasses.
We have to shout to talk to each other, the truck is that bad and loud. The whole body rattles and shimmies and humms when you get to highway speeds. What makes it worse is that with the weight of the bike in the back pressing down on the suspension and whatever else is up under there, the ball joints whistle.
“We’re gonna make it, right?” She asks after about forty minutes into the three hour drive.
“Yeah, of course,” I say confidently. In my heart though, I wonder if it will, and I worry about how the hell we’re going to get a tow with the bike on the back, should we need one. I smile, and this seems to put her at ease, so she nods off. The whole time, like a Buddhist meditating, I constantly chant “a few more miles, a few more miles, a few more miles” in my head.
Apparently the mantra worked, because we eventually pulled into my parent’s driveway that afternoon.
Dad was in the driveway, spraying off a motorcycle engine with a hose. Rain was due any second, and with his giant fox tail of a beard, he squeezed The Lady with one arm while battling me back with the hose in his other hand. We embraced as well, and got to catching up on things, as we all began cleaning up my Shit Wagon.
Time was of the essence, while on the road, I had called a local Honda dealership because I found a pair of Ridgeline pick up trucks on their website I was very interested in seeing. I thought that maybe calling in ahead of time and setting up an appointment would be the best way to go. Give them an idea of who I was, what I wanted, and how important time was to me. If I was the type of person who made appointments to see vehicles, I would obviously be treated as a person who took time as money.
Or so I thought.
We made our appointment on time, and checked in with the receptionist at the front desk. What amazed me the most about every dealership we’d go to from here on in, was how busy they were. Every where you go, you hear about car dealerships crying for help from the public. They’re basically giving cars away, because no one wants to spend money on a gas chugging SUV or pick up. I’m surprised that it hasn’t disintegrated into “buy one get one free” extravaganzas.
So, the place had more than enough people walking around both in the lots and inside the show room. We were told by the receptionist that the salesman we made the appointment with was with a customer, but was wrapping things up. We were allowed to take a seat in a small waiting area, and someone would be with us shortly.
From the jump, as soon as we walked into the place, The Lady was on edge. She glanced upward nervously, and when I finally asked her what the hell her problem was, she simply pointed to the balloons.
You see, at these dealerships, they want to present a festive and party atmosphere. They, those in charge, think that they, the customer, will not buy a vehicle if the scene is similar to a funeral home. They play up the celebratory, party vibe, thinking that if consumers think it’s a party, they’ll want to drop hard earned cash - and potentially fuck up their credit - with a new or certified pre-owned vehicle.
So it was the balloons that were making her nervous. I forgot to mention The Lady has a crippling allergy to latex. This has somewhat been the bane of our relationship, if you’d believe it. Most condoms are made of latex, and the non-latex varieties are extremely tight fitting. Imagine trying to stuff a week’s worth of clothes into a tiny gym bag, and you’ll get what it’s like for me to get myself into one of these specialized prophylactics.
Over our heads were giant-sized balloons in patriotic color schemes of reds, whites and blues. Over sized balloons hanging low over our heads had The Lady ducking and sinking nervously into her vinyl seat. I tried to distract her with some strategy talk:
“Ok, hey, listen,” I began. “When we get in there, and start haggling over price and payments… don’t like, hit me, or get shocked if I start acting like a total asshole towards the guy. I’m not saying I’m going to insult him or anything, but if I start to get a little weird, don’t show our hand by making it seem that that’s not how I am all the time, you know?” And she got it without me having to explain it at all.
“Oh I know,” she says, “I know how to act in public.” And I smile and she sinks a little more into the seat, looking skyward.
After about half an hour, the other side of the time-table I gave the salesman on the phone (when I called and made the appointment, I stated “between four and four-thirty,” and what I was told was “perfect.”.) we were both getting antsy. No one had even approached us, not another salesman, not the receptionist, and certainly not the guy I made the appointment with. I made a big deal out of looking down at my watch, and our conversation about how long we’d been waiting grew louder and louder.
All the guy had to do was come around from his office and say “hey gang, sorry, this is wrapping up here, thanks for waiting, why don’t you get a cup of coffee I’ll be right with you in ten minutes,” and we’d been fine. I was very much interested in looking at these Ridgelines, and possibly purchasing one on the spot, to hell with haggling over price. But no one, in this entire PRIME HONDA DEALERSHIP paid us any mind.
As we were considering just getting up and leaving, my cell phone rang and it was my mother, who was just getting off of work. I explained the situation to her, how we’d been sitting for so long without anyone even talking to us, and she couldn’t believe it.
“You wanna see them jump,” she said, “just stand up and head for the door.”
“I know, I know, but,” I glanced back down at my watch, “I’ll give them a few more minutes,” as the time closed in on the 45 minute mark.
The final straw came when, off the street, a pair of Somalis walked in and were seen immediately by a sales person, as two well dressed and respectable white persons sat in total disbelief!
“That’s it!” Started The Lady, “we’re out of here,” and we both stood, walking out the door. I let loose a pissed off tirade about how shitty a business PRIME HONDA, ON THE SACO AUTOMILE, US RT 1, SACO MAINE was. I was also crushed, because I had set my heart on those Ridgelines.
Being that there were about a hundred more dealerships within two miles of where we were, we simply climbed back into my sad and pathetic truck and started driving north bound. On the right hand side of the road a little ways down from the Honda dealership, was a Toyota dealership.
Before I go any further, I want to make clear I wasn’t solely in the market for a foreign car. It just so happens that the deals I saw online, and the things I heard about certain manufacturers made it easier for me to check out their inventories, say, than that of a domestic car maker. And besides, all the vehicles allegedly made in the US, by US car manufacturers, are actually manufactured in Canada and Mexico.
So we pull into the Toyota Dealership, which was also owned by the Prime Auto Group, and started to just mill about in the lot. They had a lot of 09 Tundras, V8, all-time four wheel drive that they were doing everything but just giving away to every swinging dick that stepped foot on the lot.
We were soon approached by a very rat-like in appearance man named Richard, or Rich, or Dick, however you want to slice it. He had a prominent uni-brow with one long hair sticking about half an inch from the center of his face. His eyes were dark and beady, teeth a horrible mash of stained ivory in his mouth, with a badly gelled comb-over, onion breath, and all the charm of bloated pig stomach. He asked me, as any salesman would, what I was interested in.
“Well, I’m looking for a full sized truck, 2006-08 maybe … it doesn’t have to have all the bells and whistles, you understand, but it has to have some of the basic modern conveniences, like, … power windows, doors, .. keyless entry, … oh and it has to be black. That’s important.” And he took this all in, nodding, and he started to immediately push the $31,000 2009 Tundra, as if what I just said floated out into the atmosphere and missed him completely.
“We have a great buyers allowance on these,” as he leads me over to a row of brand new OPEC supporting machines. “You can get up to 6,000 off the sticker, with 0 down and 4.9% APR financing, if you’re credit’s good.”
“Ah huh, but uh, that’s still pretty much out of my price range, Richard,” I say to him. He nods and invites us inside.
We sit for a while, hashing out what I want. I mention how we were at the Honda dealership just before hand, and how shoddily we were treated over there. I even show him the internet print-offs of the Ridgelines, saying that’s what I was most interested in seeing.
“Well, you know Jim,” he begins, leaning in smugly from his side of the desk, “being that this is a Prime dealership, I have access to those Ridgelines, it’s all just a matter of finding which lot their at…”
“Really?!” And the hook gets set. He gets up and says he’s going to have them located and we can go check them out. I feel renewed, thinking everything’s going to work out. I smile at The Lady, who’s psyched that I’m in line to get what I want. While the salesman is off dicking around, I get another call from my mom:
“Yeah, we bounced over to the Toyota Dealership up the road. Come by if you want,” I tell her. My whole plan is this: My mother is a tenacious negotiator when it comes to car buying. Her last three vehicles she purchased, she sent the salesmen away crushed and crying and unemployed in that order. She’s a heavy hitter who takes shit from no one. She’s my big gun, my secret weapon, my Ace in the hole. I’m calling her in to lay down heavy artillery while I get my captured comrades out of the POW camp.
The salesman, Richard comes back with some print offs, keys and a dealer plate. I let him know what he’s in for when my mother shows up.
“You don’t even understand,” I begin. “My mother is like the bad cop to my good cop. You thought I was bad… you’re gonna wish it was only me you were dealing with when she shows up,” and he thinks I’m joking. He laughs, and at the same time, an actual Saco cop walks through the show room, short, pointy face, Mediterranean skin tone.
“Hey,” the salesman calls after the cop, “which one are you, the good cop or the bad cop,” as he plays on the joke. The cops stops, completely unaware of the conversation we’re having without him, and shrugs.
“I’m usually the bad cop,” he says. Under my breath I add “He’s probably also the bottom, too.”
At about the same time we head outside, my mother shows up. She’s an unassuming, gray haired office drone, who smiles every time she sees me. We hug in the dealership lot and then she turns and hugs The Lady. We all collectively climb into a waiting Buick Skylark and go across the street to the Nissan dealership where the Ridgelines are waiting for us.
“Your mother hates me” says The Lady out of no where when we’re away from my mother’s hearing. I look at her stunned.
“What?! What makes you think that?”
“Body language. I also accidentally called her ‘Mary’ on the phone a little while ago. I think she’s holding that against me.” My mother, pleasant as she is, is very old school. I had told The Lady about this previously, that she should address my dad as ‘Charlie’ and my mom as ‘Mrs. N-’ until told otherwise. The Lady claims I never told her this, or told her something different entirely. I know for a fact I brought this up months ago. I glance back at my mother, smiling, staring off at different cars, holding her bag and walking around the lot somewhat pigeon-toed, with an oblivious smile on her face.
“Don’t be so damn neurotic,” I hiss at The Lady, “make nice with my mom!” And the asshole salesman comes back, as he’s located the Ridgeline I wanted to see.
It’s an ugly gun metal gray and looks nothing like the print off I got from the computer. The inside is plain, and although minimalist is what I go for, this was just … too… minimalist for me. There was just a lot of empty space on the inside. And for it being an 2007 model, it already had 67K miles on it.
I almost half expected lemonade to drip from the exhaust pipe.
“I can’t say that I’m all that impressed,” I tell Richard. Truth be told though, the center console was fun to play with for about a minute, because it morphed and transformed into different configurations. One was like a cd case rack. Then it donned on me, that no one keeps the thick cd cases in their vehicles anymore, let alone actually listens to cds. I was heartbroken again over the Ridgeline.
“That’s ok,” he starts. “Let’s just drive it over to our other dealership and we’ll see if there’s anything over there that catches your eye,” and we take off down the road some more.
He takes us to their Ford dealership and shows me again, the gas hungry V8s. One he shows us even comes with it’s own plow rig and blade. At this point I’m getting tired of his ineptitude.
We drive back to the Toyota dealership and I off-handedly mention something about a sedan, because I heard the Camry’s were good on fuel. This started a whole new … dialogue with this fucking greasy asshole. He tours me around his lot, showing me over priced Corollas and Camrys, one pair being three years old, dented and scratched and showing visible rust. I let him know in plain language that I’m not awed with what he’s showing me.
“Let’s just take this one for a ride,” he says as he pulls out the keys to the Camry without the massive driver’s side door dent in it. We all climb in, and I make it a special point to drive like a total asshole around the back roads that I used to patrol (the dealership bordered the town I used to be a cop in, and the little ‘test track’ lapsed into the outskirts of said town.).
We get back to the dealership and again, I yawn and complain that he’s not impressing me at all. I then go on to tell him that we’re getting tired, we three, and I’d been on the road for three hours and had just spent three hours dealing with him, so we were calling it a day.
This asshole. He gets this look on his face like I just broke up with him. As if, instead of “hey, we’re tired of your fucking miserable excuse for cars, and you’re epic failure as a salesman, so we’re going home to rest now,” we’re saying “hey, this isn’t working out, we can’t see each other anymore, we’re breaking up.”
I have never before seen such a lack of professionalism.
“Why?” He says to me, almost in half a whisper. I stare at him, wide eyed in disbelief.
“Because, you’re not showing me anything that I want.”
“Well, how do you know what you want?” He asks, as if he’s trying to get some psychological leg up on me.
“I know what I don’t want,” I say, “and you’re showing me a lot of that. I told you what I wanted: A full sized pick up, 2006 through 08, modern basic accoutrements, V6, and it had to be BLACK. You haven’t even shown me one black vehicle yet.” He nods absently.
“Ok, I got one last car to show you, just give me five more minutes of your time, and you can go.” And I look back at my family, the two most important women in my life, and I sigh and say ok, and walk over to a display with him., leaving them to wait and starve a little while longer.
He walks me over to a black Scion TC, the equivalent of Pampers Pull Ups for autobuyers. The Scions are Toyotas geared towards 18-21 year olds who love a lot of flash and don’t care about substance. We both stare down at it with different expressions on our faces; his is adoration or some form of it, and mine is general boredom.
He starts his pitch script “What do you think, rad right?” Rad?!
“Uh, sure.” I couldn’t sound any more uninterested.
“Now, here’s what I want you to do, what would be an ‘Awesome Deal’ on this vehicle” he pitches. I pause for drama, and give him my pitch.
“Awesome deal? …I’ll give you 9 for it.” It was stickered as a 2009 for 16900.
“Whoa, well, wait, I mean, let’s be realistic.”
“Ok, realistically, I’d give you…. Maybe… maybe, 9-5.” And he develops heart burn.
“Let me go talk to my guy in the office and see what he thinks,” and he starts to walk back inside.
“Look, let me save you the trouble, Rich: I’m not interested in this car. When I woke up this morning, my mind set was on a full sized pick up. In the very far reaches of my mind, I was thinking sedan, but that was like, the outer most limits of my thinking. I wasn’t even thinking Scion this morning. So don’t try to shoe-horn me into this car, I don’t want it.” And I get that look from him, as if I only just said “I’m not taking you to the prom.”
“Ok, well, I’m sorry then, but… you still have to talk to my manager. I won’t get paid if you don’t talk to him.”
When I was in high school, we had a substitute teacher named Mr. Finley. Mr. Finley worked at a car dealership full time and subbed part time, for a goof. On one day, when he was supposed to be handing out a test or something, he instead gave a lesson on car buying. What not to fall for, what a good deal looked like, what was bullshit, etc.
One thing Mr. Finley talked about was the “let me get my manager before you leave” trick; which is when they bring in their heavy hitter, their big gun, their bad cop. It’s not really a manager they bring out, but their high pressure salesman. The back breaker. The guy who’s going to make you feel like a total shitbird for wasting “his employee’s” time by not buying a car. When you have a tough nut to crack, you break out the big nut cracker.
I saw this coming a mile away.
“Ok, Rich, I’ll be right here,” I said. He gives me his most professional rat-faced smile and goes back into the show room. I turn and bolt for my truck.
The Lady is sitting with the passenger side door open, smoking one of her American Spirits, and she looks up at me through her giant round sunglasses.
“What’s the matter?” She asks with a look on her face that really wants to ask “did you just hold up a bank?” …That sort of panicked, catch-me-up look.
“We gotta go, get in,” I spit. She tosses out her butt and stamps it with a sandal, and we tear ass out of the dealer’s lot, presumably with Richard running after us, yelling for us to stop.
I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t looking back.
That night, feeling utterly disappointed in my lack of ownership in a new car, but feeling triumphant that I was able to stave off the advances of a dipshit salesman, we all sat around eating Chinese from a local restaurant. My mom and The Lady had a chance to talk, as did dad and I. And then we switched when The Lady needed a post dinner smoke and dad followed her outside (it might have been the low cut shirt and bra combination she was wearing…)
Feeling the tension from earlier still coming off The Lady, I straight up asked my mother what she thought of her.
I knew this was a dumb thing to ask my mother, because mom is in the business of making her only son happy and content, even if that means lying to his face. Unfortunately for my mother, I’ve become quite adept at picking up her tells when she’s lying and when she’s not.
I mean, I was a cop for Christsakes.
“So mom, really, what do you think of The Lady?”
“She’s wonderful,” and I squint, looking at her face. “What?”
“Nothing, go on,”
“Well, she’s beautiful, and smart,” still all very generic, nothing specific. “I like her aura, how she looks at you. She loves you James. You two have such a good chemistry together, it really shows through. I catch her looking at you when you’re not paying attention and she doesn’t realize it. She adores you. It’s all over her body language.”
My scans for deceitfulness in my mother’s face find none. I let the skepticism go from my face. At the same time, The Lady and my dad return from outside, and we do the dishes together. When that’s done, we both call it a night and retreat into my old bedroom, now my father’s room.
We watch a little tv and I offer her a backrub. We’re very at home with the door closed. I lean in for a kiss, she rolls on to her back and we start to do what couples do with the lights off.
“We have to be quiet,” she whispers up to me between kisses.
“No, I know,” I whisper back.
“I really don’t want your parents to hear us having sex,” she hisses, all seriousness in her voice.
“I. know.” I say back in the same seriousness. My cock poking her through her PJ pants. We kiss and disrobe each other.
We both agree over breakfast at a little Main Street Diner called Jonsey’s the next morning, that there is no way in hell my parent’s DIDN’T hear us going at it. Twice. In my father’s bed.
Hell has a special section for sons like me.
While at Jonsey’s we play a game of hangman on a sales flyer for a Ford Dealership up in Westbrook, about a twenty minute drive. While The Lady tries to decipher “I Like Big Butts And I Can Not Lie” I notice that this particular dealership has 2009 Ford F-150s for 200 bucks a month, as advertised. Fuck it, I think to myself, what’s the worst that could happen?
As if she read my mind and answered for the both of us, The Lady says “We’re so not going back to The Cape in your ratty S-10.” And I realize then, that we’d better check out this dealership, stat.
We arrived on scene a little after nine in the morning and wandered around the lot. We were met by an older grandpa type named Bob. When I showed him the flyer (discretely covering the hangman phrase with my hand) with the circled stuff I was interested in, he brought us over to where they kept them.
“They’re very bare bones,” he starts in a grandfatherly way, “no power anything, manual stick, no carpeting. They’re really designed for Government and Commercial use, you know?” I think back to my rotting S-10, and decide that there’s no way in hell I’m going back to a similar situation. Stick shift? No power anything?
So I lay it on Bob, the same way I laid it on Rich: “Well, I’m looking for a full sized pick up, 2006-2008ish, power doors, locks, keyless entry, that whole bit. I’d like it to be a V6, maybe an extended cab… you know? Oh, and it has to be Black. That’s important.” He nods along.
“Well, let’s see what we got out back,” he says. He gestures us to follow him down out back to where there’s a whole row of F-1- and 250s. My eyes immediately lock on to one in particular.
“That one.” And I point to it. “Tell me about that one.”
“Well,” Bob starts, “it’s a 2005, uh, only 24K on it, power everything, regular cab, flare side, all weather tires,” and he goes on. What’s got my attention the most is that it’s all black.
“That’s it, that’s the one,” and I look at The Lady. “That’s it.”
She’s happy for me again, and we go inside where I’m slapped in the face and stabbed through the heart at the same time. In the middle of their show room, inexplicably, there’s a Triumph Daytona 990, a 2009 model, just hanging out. My knees buckle a little and I drag myself over to the negotiation table.
We hash out some numbers, mostly what I’m looking for for payments, etc. He goes over to his boss and comes back with a slip of paper and slides it in front of me.
“Well ok Jim,” he begins, adjusting his glasses as he talks, “with 3000 down, and the 800 we’re giving you for your truck on the trade in (about 1000 more than they should’ve given me… figure it out…), you’re looking at this for a monthly payment, which is right where you want to be,” the only problem with that was I had nothing to put down.
That’s not entirely true. I had about 800 dollars in my savings that was exactly that, savings. I just didn’t want to touch it.
“Well, I wasn’t uh, you know, planning on putting anything down…” I say sheepishly. I start to feel a slightly tinge of panic, thinking I might be in over my head. Without hesitation, The Lady speaks up.
“He has 1600 to put down,” she says with confidence. I was about to turn to her and say ‘Bitch, you know I ain’t got no 1600 dollars!’ But it then dawns on me, that she’s going to float me the cash for the down payment right out of her pocket.
Looks like my mother was right after all.
I protest for a second, and she kicks me under the table, hard, right where the calf muscle and tibia meet. I wince and smile.
“Uh, I actually have 2200 I can put down,” I say, after I figure that if she’s going to put up 1600, I might as well put up 600 of my own. Bob goes back with the new figures and I shoot The Lady a look.
“You better know what you’re getting yourself into,” I say to her.
“I do. I’ll just make you sign a promissory note… say, you have to pay it back over the next two years? That way, I get to keep you around for the next two years.” She smiles.
I can’t help but be in love with her.
Bob comes back with the updated figures. We all agree that it looks good and we should get the financing started. I tell him that we’re going to need to hit up my bank to get the cash for the down payment, because she left her check book at home and needs to wire transfer the money up. Bob’s so cool that he lets me take the truck I’m going to buy with me to do these errands.
The Lady calls her bank and she’s told that she has to be present at the bank in order to make the wire transfer go through. I think this sounds a little odd, but I don’t say anything, and we happily drive down the highway back from Westbrook to Biddeford. We get to my bank, and she calls her bank back. Now she’s talking to someone else, and they’re saying she has to be present at HER bank, not mine. We’re left standing dumbfounded in the bank parking lot, looking at my new truck slipping away.
“You sure you don’t have your check book in your bag at my parent’s house?” I ask her.
“Yeah, no I know it’s in the apartment. I left it on the nightstand, or your desk.” I curse. I suggest we drive the truck over to my parent’s house to show it to my dad and see if he’s got any suggestions. And by “suggestions”, I mean “money.”
We get back over to my parent’s house and dad gives the truck a once over. He’s impressed, though being a Chevy man, he won’t admit to it.
“If I were a Transformer, this is what I’d transform into,” I tell him, about the truck. I then tell him about the story of the down payment and he nods solemnly.
My dad has a weird knack of being condescending at the wrong times and not knowing it. I probably do the same thing, but being that one’s unaware when doing it, it’s hard to tell if I do it at all.
“Well Jim, maybe it’s just not meant to be, you know?” He says this right in front of the truck. We all decide that I should call the dealership and let them know the situation, oppose to just stealing the truck outright.
“Hey,” I call Bob’s personal cell phone, “it’s Jim with the truck. Yeah…. Yeah… Yeah, well I just wanted you to know that we’re coming back, but that we couldn’t get the wire transfer from her bank on the Cape. She has to be there in person I guess? Yeah…. No yeah, I’m coming back with the truck. I am. Yeah, like right now. But could you tell the guy doing the financing that the numbers are going to be a little different? Also, tell him I’m coming back with the truck right now. Like, right now.”
When we get back to the dealership, Bob’s super understanding. These things happen, he says. It’s the finance guy who’s shitting a brick.
Apparently this isn’t the usual finance guy. He’s like an understudy, he’s short, slimy-looking like Richard was, highly caffeinated and likes to shake hands a lot, and all weird, with his hand cocked out to the side, which requires me to look at his hand to line up the shake, oppose to looking him in the eyes, like I’m used to. All of this makes me increasingly nervous.
When we finally get down to it, we’re crushing out numbers and it comes down to about fifteen dollars more a month than what I want to pay. But I suck it up and pick up the pen. I’m literally a breath away from owning this truck (or at least holding it while the bank owns it) when this shark starts talking about the Extended Warranty.
“It covers everything, from tire blow outs and towing, to broken glass and mechanical malfunctions. You can bring it back here for almost everything, all for what I like to call, the cup of coffee a day,”
“Well, what’s the price of a cup of coffee these days?” I ask.
“About 2.55,” he says. I laugh.
“That’s some cup of coffee. No wonder Starbucks is closing stores.” The humor is lost on him.
“When you add it up, your monthly payment, with the extended warranty, which covers your truck for the next three years, is going to be X” and “X” represented about 75 dollars more a month than the 15 dollars more than I wanted to pay, period.
“No, I can’t swing that. I still have to pay gas and insurance on this thing. That’s not do-able.” I tell him.
“But you’re protecting your investment,” he starts.
“But this is redundant. I have insurance for a reason, as well as AAA. And this dealership’s policy is a lifetime warranty anyway, as long as I bring it back here when something goes wrong. You’re basically asking me to spend money on nothing.”
He gets noticeably upset. “I don’t think you understand, Mr. N”
“No, I don’t think you understand. I Don’t Want It. How can I be more clear?” He swallows hard, shut down and then prints off a page with all the things the warranty would be covering. With a big green magic marker, he rights DENIED across the front of the page, then under it, he strikes a line with an X next to it for me to sign on. With a lot of strain in his voice, the midget says:
“This here is just for our records, to show that you were offered this program, but have denied it.” And I sign extra big.
There were a few last loose threads, like getting the car detailed and a window button looked at, but after 6 hours, I was done. The truck was in my name.
We left the dealership, exhausted by victorious. The truck got a professional detailing and I had a guilt free conscience. I was flying so high that I even let The Lady smoke inside the truck on the drive home.
Unfortunately, my mom had to work late so we didn’t get on the road til much later that night. She didn’t get a good look at the truck because it was dark out. So I made sure I had The Lady take a picture of me and the truck that afternoon after I got it home. I then took the picture and made it her computer’s desk top wall paper, and shut the computer down, so she would get a surprise when she turned it on.
Here’s the picture:
Also, The Lady hates that t shirt. Yet she was the one who packed it.
Epilogue: It turns out, her check book was in her bag the whole time too. Oh Well.
My Battle Wagon, my beat to hell, bloody-faced version of Mel Gibson from “Braveheart” was on it’s last leg. Like Sir William Wallace at the end of that film, it was on it’s back, having it’s guts ripped out for an audience.
To compound things further, I had to use it to haul my equally non operational/dependable motorcycle back to Maine. It’s here that I decided I should test the strength, not only of my vehicle’s suspension and chassis, but my relationship with The Lady as well.
We’d been meaning to get to Maine since June. Schedule conflicts, etc, kinda made that impossible. She works in an industry that, in the summer months, doesn’t give a lot of time to take off, whereas I, being military, only have a certain amount of time I can be gone for. Literally, things need to be scheduled well in advance if we want to do anything fun for an extended period of time.
So I asked her a week or so ago if she wanted to come with me to drop the bike and the truck off at my parent’s place, all under the assumption that I would be getting a new vehicle of some sort by the end of the few days we’d be up there. She agreed, obviously not knowing what she’d be getting into.
Because, how better to test your relationship with a woman than by taking an ill conceived road trip to your parents house in a vehicle that may or may not die on the three hour drive there?
The trip started off with drama, of course. She drops her car off at her mother’s, for fear that it’ll be towed if we leave it unattended at the parking lot for too long, and we ride over to our house. I want to be on the road no later than noon, because it’s a haul and especially in my little fucked up S-10, it takes a lot out of me when I drive for long extended periods. The science behind this is that the sooner we’re on the road, the sooner we’re off.
But, The Lady doesn’t want to go to Maine without any cash on her. I don’t blame her. Her boss, however, doesn’t have her pay check ready. Also, apparently, he’s too cheap to have direct deposit.
I mean, it’s only the second half of 2008.
But the situation is fine for now; I still have the business of loading my Triumph into the back of my truck. I head out to my truck and bike, take the ramps out, set up everything. When it’s all said and done, I realize that I’ve really only given myself about ten feet of space to work my bike up the 45 degree angled aluminum ramps, with only about six to seven feet of bed space in the back of the truck. I would literally have to gun the shit out of my bike to get it up the ramp (because worst case scenario would be me not getting enough speed, getting the front wheel up in the bed, but then the ramps kicking out, making me fall backwards and ultimately underneath the 500 lb bike, breaking my spine.). I back the bike as far back as it’ll go, which is on the edge of payment and a grassy area, and start to rev it. I keep working the throttle and clutch, goosing and feathering it, and when I feel the rear tire start to spin on it’s own, with my hand clutching hard down on the front brake, I give it as much gas as I can.
White smoke starts to spew from the tire, as she begins to screech on the pavement under me. I can feel the back end starting to swing a little to the left and I adjust my body weight to compensate. Come on, I think to myself, nice and easy, straight shot up the ramp.
This is the most nerve racking thing I can think of doing. The ramp is so light and the bike is so heavy. My tail gate could literally snap off at any moment and send the bike straight down at a high rate of speed, crashing it’s fairing and forks into the back of the bed and sending me over the handlebars and through the rear window of my cab. With the smoke and screeching building, I drop the brake and clutch at the same time and launch forward towards the ramp.
I hit the ramp, and for a very brief moment I’m fucking airborne. There isn’t even time for me to really register this thought before I crash back down into the bed, my front tire kicking a giant dent into the back of the cab, below the window. The tire’s still screeching and smoking, throttle’s stuck open, and the horrible sound of an engine trying to tear itself apart is filling the air.
I clutch in, kick her down to neutral and straight up before putting down my stand and shutting it down. I look back over my shoulder, breathing heavy, sweat in my eyes, as the ramp is flat on the ground, no longer attached to the back of my truck.
“Jesus Christ,” I pant. I dismount, and shakily put the tie-down ratchet straps into formation and compress my forks for the ride. Behind the truck is a littering of spent burnt rubber shavings from the tire.
I give myself a second to relax, breathe in and breathe out, calm my shaking hands. Just then, The Lady rounds the corner and I paste on a smile to try to hide the “Holy Shit” look that I’m sure I have anyway.
“Boss Man doesn’t have the checks,” she says. She’s pissed. If she gets on this ride with me, she’s going to be a total tyrant, if this is the attitude she’s going to start with. She’s already stressed out about an extended meeting of my parents (she previously met them for about five minutes when they came down earlier in the Spring) so with all that going on, I didn’t want an upset stomach from her belly aching, if you dig.
“Hey,” I start. “I don’t want you stressed out. This trip is going to be a lot of stress, and I don’t want you starting off this way.”
She gives me a look, and a sigh.
“I’m not stressed at you, it’s just Boss Man is a douchetard,” and she goes on for fifteen minutes explaining past experiences in how she’s been upended on pay checks and such. She ends with “I love the guy, he’s been great to me, but for all I do around there, all I’m asking is that he pays me on time.”
We go to her bank, and then hit up a Burger King, and we’re on the road.
Things mellow out after a little while. She’s reading one of my Palaniuks, curled up in the seat wearing only a string bikini top and a pair of sweats. I’m in shorts and flip flops, Calvin Klein t shirt, sunglasses, singing along with classic rock hits on the ipod, getting her exasperated looks from over the tops of her sunglasses.
We have to shout to talk to each other, the truck is that bad and loud. The whole body rattles and shimmies and humms when you get to highway speeds. What makes it worse is that with the weight of the bike in the back pressing down on the suspension and whatever else is up under there, the ball joints whistle.
“We’re gonna make it, right?” She asks after about forty minutes into the three hour drive.
“Yeah, of course,” I say confidently. In my heart though, I wonder if it will, and I worry about how the hell we’re going to get a tow with the bike on the back, should we need one. I smile, and this seems to put her at ease, so she nods off. The whole time, like a Buddhist meditating, I constantly chant “a few more miles, a few more miles, a few more miles” in my head.
Apparently the mantra worked, because we eventually pulled into my parent’s driveway that afternoon.
Dad was in the driveway, spraying off a motorcycle engine with a hose. Rain was due any second, and with his giant fox tail of a beard, he squeezed The Lady with one arm while battling me back with the hose in his other hand. We embraced as well, and got to catching up on things, as we all began cleaning up my Shit Wagon.
Time was of the essence, while on the road, I had called a local Honda dealership because I found a pair of Ridgeline pick up trucks on their website I was very interested in seeing. I thought that maybe calling in ahead of time and setting up an appointment would be the best way to go. Give them an idea of who I was, what I wanted, and how important time was to me. If I was the type of person who made appointments to see vehicles, I would obviously be treated as a person who took time as money.
Or so I thought.
We made our appointment on time, and checked in with the receptionist at the front desk. What amazed me the most about every dealership we’d go to from here on in, was how busy they were. Every where you go, you hear about car dealerships crying for help from the public. They’re basically giving cars away, because no one wants to spend money on a gas chugging SUV or pick up. I’m surprised that it hasn’t disintegrated into “buy one get one free” extravaganzas.
So, the place had more than enough people walking around both in the lots and inside the show room. We were told by the receptionist that the salesman we made the appointment with was with a customer, but was wrapping things up. We were allowed to take a seat in a small waiting area, and someone would be with us shortly.
From the jump, as soon as we walked into the place, The Lady was on edge. She glanced upward nervously, and when I finally asked her what the hell her problem was, she simply pointed to the balloons.
You see, at these dealerships, they want to present a festive and party atmosphere. They, those in charge, think that they, the customer, will not buy a vehicle if the scene is similar to a funeral home. They play up the celebratory, party vibe, thinking that if consumers think it’s a party, they’ll want to drop hard earned cash - and potentially fuck up their credit - with a new or certified pre-owned vehicle.
So it was the balloons that were making her nervous. I forgot to mention The Lady has a crippling allergy to latex. This has somewhat been the bane of our relationship, if you’d believe it. Most condoms are made of latex, and the non-latex varieties are extremely tight fitting. Imagine trying to stuff a week’s worth of clothes into a tiny gym bag, and you’ll get what it’s like for me to get myself into one of these specialized prophylactics.
Over our heads were giant-sized balloons in patriotic color schemes of reds, whites and blues. Over sized balloons hanging low over our heads had The Lady ducking and sinking nervously into her vinyl seat. I tried to distract her with some strategy talk:
“Ok, hey, listen,” I began. “When we get in there, and start haggling over price and payments… don’t like, hit me, or get shocked if I start acting like a total asshole towards the guy. I’m not saying I’m going to insult him or anything, but if I start to get a little weird, don’t show our hand by making it seem that that’s not how I am all the time, you know?” And she got it without me having to explain it at all.
“Oh I know,” she says, “I know how to act in public.” And I smile and she sinks a little more into the seat, looking skyward.
After about half an hour, the other side of the time-table I gave the salesman on the phone (when I called and made the appointment, I stated “between four and four-thirty,” and what I was told was “perfect.”.) we were both getting antsy. No one had even approached us, not another salesman, not the receptionist, and certainly not the guy I made the appointment with. I made a big deal out of looking down at my watch, and our conversation about how long we’d been waiting grew louder and louder.
All the guy had to do was come around from his office and say “hey gang, sorry, this is wrapping up here, thanks for waiting, why don’t you get a cup of coffee I’ll be right with you in ten minutes,” and we’d been fine. I was very much interested in looking at these Ridgelines, and possibly purchasing one on the spot, to hell with haggling over price. But no one, in this entire PRIME HONDA DEALERSHIP paid us any mind.
As we were considering just getting up and leaving, my cell phone rang and it was my mother, who was just getting off of work. I explained the situation to her, how we’d been sitting for so long without anyone even talking to us, and she couldn’t believe it.
“You wanna see them jump,” she said, “just stand up and head for the door.”
“I know, I know, but,” I glanced back down at my watch, “I’ll give them a few more minutes,” as the time closed in on the 45 minute mark.
The final straw came when, off the street, a pair of Somalis walked in and were seen immediately by a sales person, as two well dressed and respectable white persons sat in total disbelief!
“That’s it!” Started The Lady, “we’re out of here,” and we both stood, walking out the door. I let loose a pissed off tirade about how shitty a business PRIME HONDA, ON THE SACO AUTOMILE, US RT 1, SACO MAINE was. I was also crushed, because I had set my heart on those Ridgelines.
Being that there were about a hundred more dealerships within two miles of where we were, we simply climbed back into my sad and pathetic truck and started driving north bound. On the right hand side of the road a little ways down from the Honda dealership, was a Toyota dealership.
Before I go any further, I want to make clear I wasn’t solely in the market for a foreign car. It just so happens that the deals I saw online, and the things I heard about certain manufacturers made it easier for me to check out their inventories, say, than that of a domestic car maker. And besides, all the vehicles allegedly made in the US, by US car manufacturers, are actually manufactured in Canada and Mexico.
So we pull into the Toyota Dealership, which was also owned by the Prime Auto Group, and started to just mill about in the lot. They had a lot of 09 Tundras, V8, all-time four wheel drive that they were doing everything but just giving away to every swinging dick that stepped foot on the lot.
We were soon approached by a very rat-like in appearance man named Richard, or Rich, or Dick, however you want to slice it. He had a prominent uni-brow with one long hair sticking about half an inch from the center of his face. His eyes were dark and beady, teeth a horrible mash of stained ivory in his mouth, with a badly gelled comb-over, onion breath, and all the charm of bloated pig stomach. He asked me, as any salesman would, what I was interested in.
“Well, I’m looking for a full sized truck, 2006-08 maybe … it doesn’t have to have all the bells and whistles, you understand, but it has to have some of the basic modern conveniences, like, … power windows, doors, .. keyless entry, … oh and it has to be black. That’s important.” And he took this all in, nodding, and he started to immediately push the $31,000 2009 Tundra, as if what I just said floated out into the atmosphere and missed him completely.
“We have a great buyers allowance on these,” as he leads me over to a row of brand new OPEC supporting machines. “You can get up to 6,000 off the sticker, with 0 down and 4.9% APR financing, if you’re credit’s good.”
“Ah huh, but uh, that’s still pretty much out of my price range, Richard,” I say to him. He nods and invites us inside.
We sit for a while, hashing out what I want. I mention how we were at the Honda dealership just before hand, and how shoddily we were treated over there. I even show him the internet print-offs of the Ridgelines, saying that’s what I was most interested in seeing.
“Well, you know Jim,” he begins, leaning in smugly from his side of the desk, “being that this is a Prime dealership, I have access to those Ridgelines, it’s all just a matter of finding which lot their at…”
“Really?!” And the hook gets set. He gets up and says he’s going to have them located and we can go check them out. I feel renewed, thinking everything’s going to work out. I smile at The Lady, who’s psyched that I’m in line to get what I want. While the salesman is off dicking around, I get another call from my mom:
“Yeah, we bounced over to the Toyota Dealership up the road. Come by if you want,” I tell her. My whole plan is this: My mother is a tenacious negotiator when it comes to car buying. Her last three vehicles she purchased, she sent the salesmen away crushed and crying and unemployed in that order. She’s a heavy hitter who takes shit from no one. She’s my big gun, my secret weapon, my Ace in the hole. I’m calling her in to lay down heavy artillery while I get my captured comrades out of the POW camp.
The salesman, Richard comes back with some print offs, keys and a dealer plate. I let him know what he’s in for when my mother shows up.
“You don’t even understand,” I begin. “My mother is like the bad cop to my good cop. You thought I was bad… you’re gonna wish it was only me you were dealing with when she shows up,” and he thinks I’m joking. He laughs, and at the same time, an actual Saco cop walks through the show room, short, pointy face, Mediterranean skin tone.
“Hey,” the salesman calls after the cop, “which one are you, the good cop or the bad cop,” as he plays on the joke. The cops stops, completely unaware of the conversation we’re having without him, and shrugs.
“I’m usually the bad cop,” he says. Under my breath I add “He’s probably also the bottom, too.”
At about the same time we head outside, my mother shows up. She’s an unassuming, gray haired office drone, who smiles every time she sees me. We hug in the dealership lot and then she turns and hugs The Lady. We all collectively climb into a waiting Buick Skylark and go across the street to the Nissan dealership where the Ridgelines are waiting for us.
“Your mother hates me” says The Lady out of no where when we’re away from my mother’s hearing. I look at her stunned.
“What?! What makes you think that?”
“Body language. I also accidentally called her ‘Mary’ on the phone a little while ago. I think she’s holding that against me.” My mother, pleasant as she is, is very old school. I had told The Lady about this previously, that she should address my dad as ‘Charlie’ and my mom as ‘Mrs. N-’ until told otherwise. The Lady claims I never told her this, or told her something different entirely. I know for a fact I brought this up months ago. I glance back at my mother, smiling, staring off at different cars, holding her bag and walking around the lot somewhat pigeon-toed, with an oblivious smile on her face.
“Don’t be so damn neurotic,” I hiss at The Lady, “make nice with my mom!” And the asshole salesman comes back, as he’s located the Ridgeline I wanted to see.
It’s an ugly gun metal gray and looks nothing like the print off I got from the computer. The inside is plain, and although minimalist is what I go for, this was just … too… minimalist for me. There was just a lot of empty space on the inside. And for it being an 2007 model, it already had 67K miles on it.
I almost half expected lemonade to drip from the exhaust pipe.
“I can’t say that I’m all that impressed,” I tell Richard. Truth be told though, the center console was fun to play with for about a minute, because it morphed and transformed into different configurations. One was like a cd case rack. Then it donned on me, that no one keeps the thick cd cases in their vehicles anymore, let alone actually listens to cds. I was heartbroken again over the Ridgeline.
“That’s ok,” he starts. “Let’s just drive it over to our other dealership and we’ll see if there’s anything over there that catches your eye,” and we take off down the road some more.
He takes us to their Ford dealership and shows me again, the gas hungry V8s. One he shows us even comes with it’s own plow rig and blade. At this point I’m getting tired of his ineptitude.
We drive back to the Toyota dealership and I off-handedly mention something about a sedan, because I heard the Camry’s were good on fuel. This started a whole new … dialogue with this fucking greasy asshole. He tours me around his lot, showing me over priced Corollas and Camrys, one pair being three years old, dented and scratched and showing visible rust. I let him know in plain language that I’m not awed with what he’s showing me.
“Let’s just take this one for a ride,” he says as he pulls out the keys to the Camry without the massive driver’s side door dent in it. We all climb in, and I make it a special point to drive like a total asshole around the back roads that I used to patrol (the dealership bordered the town I used to be a cop in, and the little ‘test track’ lapsed into the outskirts of said town.).
We get back to the dealership and again, I yawn and complain that he’s not impressing me at all. I then go on to tell him that we’re getting tired, we three, and I’d been on the road for three hours and had just spent three hours dealing with him, so we were calling it a day.
This asshole. He gets this look on his face like I just broke up with him. As if, instead of “hey, we’re tired of your fucking miserable excuse for cars, and you’re epic failure as a salesman, so we’re going home to rest now,” we’re saying “hey, this isn’t working out, we can’t see each other anymore, we’re breaking up.”
I have never before seen such a lack of professionalism.
“Why?” He says to me, almost in half a whisper. I stare at him, wide eyed in disbelief.
“Because, you’re not showing me anything that I want.”
“Well, how do you know what you want?” He asks, as if he’s trying to get some psychological leg up on me.
“I know what I don’t want,” I say, “and you’re showing me a lot of that. I told you what I wanted: A full sized pick up, 2006 through 08, modern basic accoutrements, V6, and it had to be BLACK. You haven’t even shown me one black vehicle yet.” He nods absently.
“Ok, I got one last car to show you, just give me five more minutes of your time, and you can go.” And I look back at my family, the two most important women in my life, and I sigh and say ok, and walk over to a display with him., leaving them to wait and starve a little while longer.
He walks me over to a black Scion TC, the equivalent of Pampers Pull Ups for autobuyers. The Scions are Toyotas geared towards 18-21 year olds who love a lot of flash and don’t care about substance. We both stare down at it with different expressions on our faces; his is adoration or some form of it, and mine is general boredom.
He starts his pitch script “What do you think, rad right?” Rad?!
“Uh, sure.” I couldn’t sound any more uninterested.
“Now, here’s what I want you to do, what would be an ‘Awesome Deal’ on this vehicle” he pitches. I pause for drama, and give him my pitch.
“Awesome deal? …I’ll give you 9 for it.” It was stickered as a 2009 for 16900.
“Whoa, well, wait, I mean, let’s be realistic.”
“Ok, realistically, I’d give you…. Maybe… maybe, 9-5.” And he develops heart burn.
“Let me go talk to my guy in the office and see what he thinks,” and he starts to walk back inside.
“Look, let me save you the trouble, Rich: I’m not interested in this car. When I woke up this morning, my mind set was on a full sized pick up. In the very far reaches of my mind, I was thinking sedan, but that was like, the outer most limits of my thinking. I wasn’t even thinking Scion this morning. So don’t try to shoe-horn me into this car, I don’t want it.” And I get that look from him, as if I only just said “I’m not taking you to the prom.”
“Ok, well, I’m sorry then, but… you still have to talk to my manager. I won’t get paid if you don’t talk to him.”
When I was in high school, we had a substitute teacher named Mr. Finley. Mr. Finley worked at a car dealership full time and subbed part time, for a goof. On one day, when he was supposed to be handing out a test or something, he instead gave a lesson on car buying. What not to fall for, what a good deal looked like, what was bullshit, etc.
One thing Mr. Finley talked about was the “let me get my manager before you leave” trick; which is when they bring in their heavy hitter, their big gun, their bad cop. It’s not really a manager they bring out, but their high pressure salesman. The back breaker. The guy who’s going to make you feel like a total shitbird for wasting “his employee’s” time by not buying a car. When you have a tough nut to crack, you break out the big nut cracker.
I saw this coming a mile away.
“Ok, Rich, I’ll be right here,” I said. He gives me his most professional rat-faced smile and goes back into the show room. I turn and bolt for my truck.
The Lady is sitting with the passenger side door open, smoking one of her American Spirits, and she looks up at me through her giant round sunglasses.
“What’s the matter?” She asks with a look on her face that really wants to ask “did you just hold up a bank?” …That sort of panicked, catch-me-up look.
“We gotta go, get in,” I spit. She tosses out her butt and stamps it with a sandal, and we tear ass out of the dealer’s lot, presumably with Richard running after us, yelling for us to stop.
I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t looking back.
That night, feeling utterly disappointed in my lack of ownership in a new car, but feeling triumphant that I was able to stave off the advances of a dipshit salesman, we all sat around eating Chinese from a local restaurant. My mom and The Lady had a chance to talk, as did dad and I. And then we switched when The Lady needed a post dinner smoke and dad followed her outside (it might have been the low cut shirt and bra combination she was wearing…)
Feeling the tension from earlier still coming off The Lady, I straight up asked my mother what she thought of her.
I knew this was a dumb thing to ask my mother, because mom is in the business of making her only son happy and content, even if that means lying to his face. Unfortunately for my mother, I’ve become quite adept at picking up her tells when she’s lying and when she’s not.
I mean, I was a cop for Christsakes.
“So mom, really, what do you think of The Lady?”
“She’s wonderful,” and I squint, looking at her face. “What?”
“Nothing, go on,”
“Well, she’s beautiful, and smart,” still all very generic, nothing specific. “I like her aura, how she looks at you. She loves you James. You two have such a good chemistry together, it really shows through. I catch her looking at you when you’re not paying attention and she doesn’t realize it. She adores you. It’s all over her body language.”
My scans for deceitfulness in my mother’s face find none. I let the skepticism go from my face. At the same time, The Lady and my dad return from outside, and we do the dishes together. When that’s done, we both call it a night and retreat into my old bedroom, now my father’s room.
We watch a little tv and I offer her a backrub. We’re very at home with the door closed. I lean in for a kiss, she rolls on to her back and we start to do what couples do with the lights off.
“We have to be quiet,” she whispers up to me between kisses.
“No, I know,” I whisper back.
“I really don’t want your parents to hear us having sex,” she hisses, all seriousness in her voice.
“I. know.” I say back in the same seriousness. My cock poking her through her PJ pants. We kiss and disrobe each other.
We both agree over breakfast at a little Main Street Diner called Jonsey’s the next morning, that there is no way in hell my parent’s DIDN’T hear us going at it. Twice. In my father’s bed.
Hell has a special section for sons like me.
While at Jonsey’s we play a game of hangman on a sales flyer for a Ford Dealership up in Westbrook, about a twenty minute drive. While The Lady tries to decipher “I Like Big Butts And I Can Not Lie” I notice that this particular dealership has 2009 Ford F-150s for 200 bucks a month, as advertised. Fuck it, I think to myself, what’s the worst that could happen?
As if she read my mind and answered for the both of us, The Lady says “We’re so not going back to The Cape in your ratty S-10.” And I realize then, that we’d better check out this dealership, stat.
We arrived on scene a little after nine in the morning and wandered around the lot. We were met by an older grandpa type named Bob. When I showed him the flyer (discretely covering the hangman phrase with my hand) with the circled stuff I was interested in, he brought us over to where they kept them.
“They’re very bare bones,” he starts in a grandfatherly way, “no power anything, manual stick, no carpeting. They’re really designed for Government and Commercial use, you know?” I think back to my rotting S-10, and decide that there’s no way in hell I’m going back to a similar situation. Stick shift? No power anything?
So I lay it on Bob, the same way I laid it on Rich: “Well, I’m looking for a full sized pick up, 2006-2008ish, power doors, locks, keyless entry, that whole bit. I’d like it to be a V6, maybe an extended cab… you know? Oh, and it has to be Black. That’s important.” He nods along.
“Well, let’s see what we got out back,” he says. He gestures us to follow him down out back to where there’s a whole row of F-1- and 250s. My eyes immediately lock on to one in particular.
“That one.” And I point to it. “Tell me about that one.”
“Well,” Bob starts, “it’s a 2005, uh, only 24K on it, power everything, regular cab, flare side, all weather tires,” and he goes on. What’s got my attention the most is that it’s all black.
“That’s it, that’s the one,” and I look at The Lady. “That’s it.”
She’s happy for me again, and we go inside where I’m slapped in the face and stabbed through the heart at the same time. In the middle of their show room, inexplicably, there’s a Triumph Daytona 990, a 2009 model, just hanging out. My knees buckle a little and I drag myself over to the negotiation table.
We hash out some numbers, mostly what I’m looking for for payments, etc. He goes over to his boss and comes back with a slip of paper and slides it in front of me.
“Well ok Jim,” he begins, adjusting his glasses as he talks, “with 3000 down, and the 800 we’re giving you for your truck on the trade in (about 1000 more than they should’ve given me… figure it out…), you’re looking at this for a monthly payment, which is right where you want to be,” the only problem with that was I had nothing to put down.
That’s not entirely true. I had about 800 dollars in my savings that was exactly that, savings. I just didn’t want to touch it.
“Well, I wasn’t uh, you know, planning on putting anything down…” I say sheepishly. I start to feel a slightly tinge of panic, thinking I might be in over my head. Without hesitation, The Lady speaks up.
“He has 1600 to put down,” she says with confidence. I was about to turn to her and say ‘Bitch, you know I ain’t got no 1600 dollars!’ But it then dawns on me, that she’s going to float me the cash for the down payment right out of her pocket.
Looks like my mother was right after all.
I protest for a second, and she kicks me under the table, hard, right where the calf muscle and tibia meet. I wince and smile.
“Uh, I actually have 2200 I can put down,” I say, after I figure that if she’s going to put up 1600, I might as well put up 600 of my own. Bob goes back with the new figures and I shoot The Lady a look.
“You better know what you’re getting yourself into,” I say to her.
“I do. I’ll just make you sign a promissory note… say, you have to pay it back over the next two years? That way, I get to keep you around for the next two years.” She smiles.
I can’t help but be in love with her.
Bob comes back with the updated figures. We all agree that it looks good and we should get the financing started. I tell him that we’re going to need to hit up my bank to get the cash for the down payment, because she left her check book at home and needs to wire transfer the money up. Bob’s so cool that he lets me take the truck I’m going to buy with me to do these errands.
The Lady calls her bank and she’s told that she has to be present at the bank in order to make the wire transfer go through. I think this sounds a little odd, but I don’t say anything, and we happily drive down the highway back from Westbrook to Biddeford. We get to my bank, and she calls her bank back. Now she’s talking to someone else, and they’re saying she has to be present at HER bank, not mine. We’re left standing dumbfounded in the bank parking lot, looking at my new truck slipping away.
“You sure you don’t have your check book in your bag at my parent’s house?” I ask her.
“Yeah, no I know it’s in the apartment. I left it on the nightstand, or your desk.” I curse. I suggest we drive the truck over to my parent’s house to show it to my dad and see if he’s got any suggestions. And by “suggestions”, I mean “money.”
We get back over to my parent’s house and dad gives the truck a once over. He’s impressed, though being a Chevy man, he won’t admit to it.
“If I were a Transformer, this is what I’d transform into,” I tell him, about the truck. I then tell him about the story of the down payment and he nods solemnly.
My dad has a weird knack of being condescending at the wrong times and not knowing it. I probably do the same thing, but being that one’s unaware when doing it, it’s hard to tell if I do it at all.
“Well Jim, maybe it’s just not meant to be, you know?” He says this right in front of the truck. We all decide that I should call the dealership and let them know the situation, oppose to just stealing the truck outright.
“Hey,” I call Bob’s personal cell phone, “it’s Jim with the truck. Yeah…. Yeah… Yeah, well I just wanted you to know that we’re coming back, but that we couldn’t get the wire transfer from her bank on the Cape. She has to be there in person I guess? Yeah…. No yeah, I’m coming back with the truck. I am. Yeah, like right now. But could you tell the guy doing the financing that the numbers are going to be a little different? Also, tell him I’m coming back with the truck right now. Like, right now.”
When we get back to the dealership, Bob’s super understanding. These things happen, he says. It’s the finance guy who’s shitting a brick.
Apparently this isn’t the usual finance guy. He’s like an understudy, he’s short, slimy-looking like Richard was, highly caffeinated and likes to shake hands a lot, and all weird, with his hand cocked out to the side, which requires me to look at his hand to line up the shake, oppose to looking him in the eyes, like I’m used to. All of this makes me increasingly nervous.
When we finally get down to it, we’re crushing out numbers and it comes down to about fifteen dollars more a month than what I want to pay. But I suck it up and pick up the pen. I’m literally a breath away from owning this truck (or at least holding it while the bank owns it) when this shark starts talking about the Extended Warranty.
“It covers everything, from tire blow outs and towing, to broken glass and mechanical malfunctions. You can bring it back here for almost everything, all for what I like to call, the cup of coffee a day,”
“Well, what’s the price of a cup of coffee these days?” I ask.
“About 2.55,” he says. I laugh.
“That’s some cup of coffee. No wonder Starbucks is closing stores.” The humor is lost on him.
“When you add it up, your monthly payment, with the extended warranty, which covers your truck for the next three years, is going to be X” and “X” represented about 75 dollars more a month than the 15 dollars more than I wanted to pay, period.
“No, I can’t swing that. I still have to pay gas and insurance on this thing. That’s not do-able.” I tell him.
“But you’re protecting your investment,” he starts.
“But this is redundant. I have insurance for a reason, as well as AAA. And this dealership’s policy is a lifetime warranty anyway, as long as I bring it back here when something goes wrong. You’re basically asking me to spend money on nothing.”
He gets noticeably upset. “I don’t think you understand, Mr. N”
“No, I don’t think you understand. I Don’t Want It. How can I be more clear?” He swallows hard, shut down and then prints off a page with all the things the warranty would be covering. With a big green magic marker, he rights DENIED across the front of the page, then under it, he strikes a line with an X next to it for me to sign on. With a lot of strain in his voice, the midget says:
“This here is just for our records, to show that you were offered this program, but have denied it.” And I sign extra big.
There were a few last loose threads, like getting the car detailed and a window button looked at, but after 6 hours, I was done. The truck was in my name.
We left the dealership, exhausted by victorious. The truck got a professional detailing and I had a guilt free conscience. I was flying so high that I even let The Lady smoke inside the truck on the drive home.
Unfortunately, my mom had to work late so we didn’t get on the road til much later that night. She didn’t get a good look at the truck because it was dark out. So I made sure I had The Lady take a picture of me and the truck that afternoon after I got it home. I then took the picture and made it her computer’s desk top wall paper, and shut the computer down, so she would get a surprise when she turned it on.
Here’s the picture:
Also, The Lady hates that t shirt. Yet she was the one who packed it.
Epilogue: It turns out, her check book was in her bag the whole time too. Oh Well.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
It Was Probably Penned Ten Years Ago, Anyway...
If you've found yourself in ear shot of a radio that plays horrible Top 40 hits, I'm sure by now you've heard the 'Attention Whore Anthem' "I Kissed A Girl (And I Liked It)" by Katy Perry.
I don't have a beef with this song for it's "controversial" overtones. Honestly, the whole idea of two girls kissing is about as shocking as "Girls Gone Wild" on VHS. Actually, after you listen to the lyrics a few times, you kinda wonder if the song wasn't written back in maybe 2000 or 2001.
My beef is primarily with the fact that it's a terrible song, sung so badly that the engineers had to mix in synths over the vocals (ala Cher's last gay dance club hit "Believe" back in ... what was it, like 1996-7?). The only thing floating this ridiculous her-tongue-in-her-cheek ditty is the fact that it's about two girls kissing.
Two girls kissing. So? Honestly, two girls kissing is pretty much played out. Go to any bar on any weekend night and you'll see two girls kissing. Tune into "Gossip Girl" on the fucking WB and you see two girls kissing. You'll even see maybe three or four girls, drunk, faces in a circle, kissing each other. Why do they do this? It's because they crave the attention of men.
Guys, and I'm really only speaking to you impressionable fellows, like my roommate, who have some rose-colored vision of how the world works: Just because two girls kiss doesn't mean there's going to be a threesome, with you in the middle of them, calling yourself a lucky bastard with the world's biggest shit eating grin on your face. I know this for a fact. Two girls kissing is basically the 2000's version of a drunk girl flashing her tits around the bar. She's starved for attention, daddy never loved her, and she wants a man to look her way. That's all.
Honestly, a song about two girls kissing is about as sexy as Warrant's "Cherry Pie" video is now-a-days. Maybe I've just gotten older, or... something, but faux-dykes don't really get my wheel turning. It's like thongs. Thongs were all the rage about ten years ago. Hell, there was even a song about that too. But now, I don't even really like them anymore.
Maybe I'm on to something here: Write a horribly catchy pop song about something taboo, and it (the taboo-ish behavior) will officially die.
Technically that's not true. Back in like, 1996 or something, a little known one hit wonder named Jill Sobule sang a much more controversial-at-the-time song about kissing a girl, called "I kissed a girl." It was a sweet and innocent song, as I remember, sang by a petite blonde Jewish girl, that was going behind her husband or boyfriend's back with the brunette neighbor.
Hot.
The new... "I Kissed a Girl" has all the charm of a dead stripper.
My other issue with this, if I can get a little conversative right-wing on everyone... but this song is obviously aimed at young girls. No... self-respecting 20-something lady is going to be wearing cherry lipstick unless she has little girl fantasies. When I hear this song, I'm somehow reminded of the girls I went to middle school with, which.... creeps me out probably a little more than it creeps you out reading that last sentence.
Kids, between the ages of like, 10 and 14 experiment. It doesn't matter if you're a girl or a boy, if you're gay or straight or just a little curious. Everyone's curious, Ryan. Little dudes want to see what other little dudes cocks look like, girls want to kiss their best friends while they play tea party in the little fort made of couch cushions. It's nature. We're curious creatures. This is why we humans would never survive in the wild.
A tree branch snaps in the distance. A herd of wild gazelles book it out of there. If it were a herd of people, half of the motherfuckers would wander on over towards where they heard the branch snap, and subsequently be killed by hunters.
To compound my arguement, my beleaguered roommate wandered into the watch room and I asked him his thoughts on the topic at hand just now:
"Hey, what do you think of that Katy Perry song?" I asked.
"The," he starts to sing "I kissed a girl, and I liked it-t-t.. the taste of her cherry chapstiii-iick!"
"I think it's cherry lipstick,"
"No, it's cherry chapstick."
"Ok, but what do you think of the song, like, does it turn you on, does it disgust you - what, you're the target demographic for this type of common American media bullshit,"
"What does that even mean?"
"Nevermind, give me your thoughts on the song."
"Well," he starts, "I used to think the song was sexy, you know? But then, one day when I was walking across the K Mart parking lot, I saw these two eight year old lesbians singing it, arm in arm. That kinda grossed me out."
And there you have it.
Undoubtedly the song will live on in some mild jaded infamy as a song that soared high on lesbian-fantasy wings for a short period of time. It'll be the choral for strip club lapdances and karaoke duets amongst drunk college freshman girls. There is nothing we can do to stop this. We should just let it wash over us like... like... something else gay.
Though it begs, would Mtv play a video about two dudes kissing? I venture not.
Also, Katy Perry.... not that hot. Really. And nothing's worse than two not-so-hot girls kissing for guy's attention. It's sad. Not hot, but sad.
I don't have a beef with this song for it's "controversial" overtones. Honestly, the whole idea of two girls kissing is about as shocking as "Girls Gone Wild" on VHS. Actually, after you listen to the lyrics a few times, you kinda wonder if the song wasn't written back in maybe 2000 or 2001.
My beef is primarily with the fact that it's a terrible song, sung so badly that the engineers had to mix in synths over the vocals (ala Cher's last gay dance club hit "Believe" back in ... what was it, like 1996-7?). The only thing floating this ridiculous her-tongue-in-her-cheek ditty is the fact that it's about two girls kissing.
Two girls kissing. So? Honestly, two girls kissing is pretty much played out. Go to any bar on any weekend night and you'll see two girls kissing. Tune into "Gossip Girl" on the fucking WB and you see two girls kissing. You'll even see maybe three or four girls, drunk, faces in a circle, kissing each other. Why do they do this? It's because they crave the attention of men.
Guys, and I'm really only speaking to you impressionable fellows, like my roommate, who have some rose-colored vision of how the world works: Just because two girls kiss doesn't mean there's going to be a threesome, with you in the middle of them, calling yourself a lucky bastard with the world's biggest shit eating grin on your face. I know this for a fact. Two girls kissing is basically the 2000's version of a drunk girl flashing her tits around the bar. She's starved for attention, daddy never loved her, and she wants a man to look her way. That's all.
Honestly, a song about two girls kissing is about as sexy as Warrant's "Cherry Pie" video is now-a-days. Maybe I've just gotten older, or... something, but faux-dykes don't really get my wheel turning. It's like thongs. Thongs were all the rage about ten years ago. Hell, there was even a song about that too. But now, I don't even really like them anymore.
Maybe I'm on to something here: Write a horribly catchy pop song about something taboo, and it (the taboo-ish behavior) will officially die.
Technically that's not true. Back in like, 1996 or something, a little known one hit wonder named Jill Sobule sang a much more controversial-at-the-time song about kissing a girl, called "I kissed a girl." It was a sweet and innocent song, as I remember, sang by a petite blonde Jewish girl, that was going behind her husband or boyfriend's back with the brunette neighbor.
Hot.
The new... "I Kissed a Girl" has all the charm of a dead stripper.
My other issue with this, if I can get a little conversative right-wing on everyone... but this song is obviously aimed at young girls. No... self-respecting 20-something lady is going to be wearing cherry lipstick unless she has little girl fantasies. When I hear this song, I'm somehow reminded of the girls I went to middle school with, which.... creeps me out probably a little more than it creeps you out reading that last sentence.
Kids, between the ages of like, 10 and 14 experiment. It doesn't matter if you're a girl or a boy, if you're gay or straight or just a little curious. Everyone's curious, Ryan. Little dudes want to see what other little dudes cocks look like, girls want to kiss their best friends while they play tea party in the little fort made of couch cushions. It's nature. We're curious creatures. This is why we humans would never survive in the wild.
A tree branch snaps in the distance. A herd of wild gazelles book it out of there. If it were a herd of people, half of the motherfuckers would wander on over towards where they heard the branch snap, and subsequently be killed by hunters.
To compound my arguement, my beleaguered roommate wandered into the watch room and I asked him his thoughts on the topic at hand just now:
"Hey, what do you think of that Katy Perry song?" I asked.
"The," he starts to sing "I kissed a girl, and I liked it-t-t.. the taste of her cherry chapstiii-iick!"
"I think it's cherry lipstick,"
"No, it's cherry chapstick."
"Ok, but what do you think of the song, like, does it turn you on, does it disgust you - what, you're the target demographic for this type of common American media bullshit,"
"What does that even mean?"
"Nevermind, give me your thoughts on the song."
"Well," he starts, "I used to think the song was sexy, you know? But then, one day when I was walking across the K Mart parking lot, I saw these two eight year old lesbians singing it, arm in arm. That kinda grossed me out."
And there you have it.
Undoubtedly the song will live on in some mild jaded infamy as a song that soared high on lesbian-fantasy wings for a short period of time. It'll be the choral for strip club lapdances and karaoke duets amongst drunk college freshman girls. There is nothing we can do to stop this. We should just let it wash over us like... like... something else gay.
Though it begs, would Mtv play a video about two dudes kissing? I venture not.
Also, Katy Perry.... not that hot. Really. And nothing's worse than two not-so-hot girls kissing for guy's attention. It's sad. Not hot, but sad.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Pic Post: Doherty Watch, Day 2!
I mean, it could be just me, but the suit and the kid does give him some level of... cleanliness. I'm currently taking bets on when next he punches out a papparazzo or jams a needle into his arm to squirt his blood at someone. Odds? Takers?The Inevitable Blacklash
I was reading an article yesterday on HuffPost about how the honeymoon between the media and presumptive Democratic presidential nominee Barak Obama might be coming to an end. It was quoted in the article that Obama has been coming off as "arrogant" as of late.
So hold on for a second here? You mean to tell me, this guy, who just about every media outlet (aside from probably FOX News) has been fawning over for the last twelve months is just now starting to get a little cocky? Really?
I recall an episode of The Daily Show where Obama was a guest, and as we was being teased into the show by Jon Stewart, they played "Halilujia," as if he was the democrat's Messiah.
And you're upset he'd developed what you may think is a "complex?"
Truth be told, Barack Obama is the Democratic Party's Second Coming, and with good reason. Here you have this Kennedesque politician (gasp, a minority at that! I'm sure the ACLU creamed their pants when he became the front runner, finally picking up Hilary's limp swollen head, placing her open mouth on the corner of a curb, and stomping her into oblivion, ala "American History X" or that one episode of the last season of "The Sopranos") who for the first time in almost a decade doesn't come off as either a boring college prof robot or a dick who talks out of both sides of his mouth. You have a candidate with a spine, good looks, and a plan.
The motherfucker went to Germany, and put more people in one place than a Scorpion's concert.
He's a rockstar, and yeah, maybe he's getting a little bit of a big head over all of this shit. I mean, while he's speaking to the krauts, his chief rival, John McCain is doing a club show in Wilkes -Barre, PA in some shoe factory or some shit. I mean, seriously.
But then again, who seems more down to Earth?
I did a little soul searching on that question, as in, who would I be more comfortable with as president, the rockstar or the everyman? Who would lead us better?
Back in 2003 or 04, a poll was taken and Americans stated that they'd be more comfortable sitting down at a bar and having a beer with G-Dub than John Kerry. Bush was more approachable it seemed, and at that point in our Nation's History, we hadn't totally fucked ourselves in Iraq "too hard" yet.
Based on this, (and some other things I considered that will remain in private) I want a rockstar for a president. Clinton was a rockstar, Regan was a rockstar, from what I can remember, Kennedy and both Roosevelts were rockstars. The country needs a cocky coxswain to steer us on a right course, not some swinging dick that you wouldn't mind having a beer with.
You could argue that Bush is/was cocky and arrogant as well, but he didn't become that way until he locked down his second term, and no longer gave a flying fuck about his administration. He basically treated his second term and the country like I treat my beat to shit 1998 S10, where I know it needs a lot of work if I want it to last another few months, but fuck it, I'm getting rid of it soon anyway, why not beat it into the ground a little harder for a goof?
Media: Let Obama be. When and if he takes the throne, he's going to have a lot of work cut out for him, so why not let him play up the part a little bit, and give the world the idea that America's still on track wth being a little pretentious, a little arrogant, and a little dashing all in one. Let him have his swagger and loose tie. Let's be progressive for once and ditch the whole "Old white guy as president" thing. I mean, yeah it's safe, but only because we've never experienced anything else.
Let the old white guys do their thing with running Mtv, The GAP and Congress. Let's put a rockstar on the stage and watch him perform.
So hold on for a second here? You mean to tell me, this guy, who just about every media outlet (aside from probably FOX News) has been fawning over for the last twelve months is just now starting to get a little cocky? Really?
I recall an episode of The Daily Show where Obama was a guest, and as we was being teased into the show by Jon Stewart, they played "Halilujia," as if he was the democrat's Messiah.
And you're upset he'd developed what you may think is a "complex?"
Truth be told, Barack Obama is the Democratic Party's Second Coming, and with good reason. Here you have this Kennedesque politician (gasp, a minority at that! I'm sure the ACLU creamed their pants when he became the front runner, finally picking up Hilary's limp swollen head, placing her open mouth on the corner of a curb, and stomping her into oblivion, ala "American History X" or that one episode of the last season of "The Sopranos") who for the first time in almost a decade doesn't come off as either a boring college prof robot or a dick who talks out of both sides of his mouth. You have a candidate with a spine, good looks, and a plan.
The motherfucker went to Germany, and put more people in one place than a Scorpion's concert.
He's a rockstar, and yeah, maybe he's getting a little bit of a big head over all of this shit. I mean, while he's speaking to the krauts, his chief rival, John McCain is doing a club show in Wilkes -Barre, PA in some shoe factory or some shit. I mean, seriously.
But then again, who seems more down to Earth?
I did a little soul searching on that question, as in, who would I be more comfortable with as president, the rockstar or the everyman? Who would lead us better?
Back in 2003 or 04, a poll was taken and Americans stated that they'd be more comfortable sitting down at a bar and having a beer with G-Dub than John Kerry. Bush was more approachable it seemed, and at that point in our Nation's History, we hadn't totally fucked ourselves in Iraq "too hard" yet.
Based on this, (and some other things I considered that will remain in private) I want a rockstar for a president. Clinton was a rockstar, Regan was a rockstar, from what I can remember, Kennedy and both Roosevelts were rockstars. The country needs a cocky coxswain to steer us on a right course, not some swinging dick that you wouldn't mind having a beer with.
You could argue that Bush is/was cocky and arrogant as well, but he didn't become that way until he locked down his second term, and no longer gave a flying fuck about his administration. He basically treated his second term and the country like I treat my beat to shit 1998 S10, where I know it needs a lot of work if I want it to last another few months, but fuck it, I'm getting rid of it soon anyway, why not beat it into the ground a little harder for a goof?
Media: Let Obama be. When and if he takes the throne, he's going to have a lot of work cut out for him, so why not let him play up the part a little bit, and give the world the idea that America's still on track wth being a little pretentious, a little arrogant, and a little dashing all in one. Let him have his swagger and loose tie. Let's be progressive for once and ditch the whole "Old white guy as president" thing. I mean, yeah it's safe, but only because we've never experienced anything else.
Let the old white guys do their thing with running Mtv, The GAP and Congress. Let's put a rockstar on the stage and watch him perform.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Your Children Are Not Precious
I often go back and forth with the idea of having my own children. Some days I'm thrilled with the idea of extending my lineage, another generation of proud people who happen to share my last name. Other days, I gag at the idea of bringing a defenseless child into this world. This is usually brought upon by seeing how other people interact with each other on our shared planet. Do I really want to subject another living person to having to deal with 6 billion dicks, pussies and assholes?
I find myself and the RM sitting down at the local KFC/Taco Bell here in town, and there's a mild circus going on. There's two women, having a conversation at table, completely oblivious to the five or 6 five-year-olds tearing the eatery apart, running amok in the restaurant, jumping on seats, throwing food, and other wise being undisciplined in public.
When I see situations like this, with the kids screaming at the tops of their lungs unchecked and treating the indoors like the outdoors I get tense. I stare and hatred builds inside of me. After many years of living on this earth, I've come to terms with the fact that the public spaces I inhabit do not necessarily belong to me and me alone for my own enjoyment, but to everyone else as well, but some things done in public are just too outrageous for even the most jaded observer.
You child unleashed is one of them.
I can't fully explain how deep my hatred goes for children when I see them just... going crazy for no reason. And yes, I understand the two mothers in this situation are probably on vacation, which means that for the rest of the god-fearing public, we're just going to have to endure the frustration of ridiculous kids ruining our lunches and giving us head aches, because god forbid a mother on vacation lift a finger to discipline a child of their own in public. But my rage is being pushed to a limit where it's likely I will pluck one of these little rug rats by his ears, and punt him through a glass window should he get within grabbing distance to me, is obviously not a concern to anyone but myself and maybe my roommate.
Attention: Your child is not a precious little being who in his heart and soul holds all that his sweet and innocent in this world. No, your child is an unrelenting asshole. Your child is the equivalent of a dickhead at a party who does nothing but blather on, story after boring story about his life, which no one cares about. Your child is an awkward example, and directly in relationship to, your poor parenting and inattentiveness. If you never really planned on having a child, or perhaps thought it was a trendy thing to do because your so-called friends from high school whom you've not been in contact with in over five years suddenly started to squirt them out last year, then the publics' resentment and loathing for you is your penance for bringing to life a sonic, ear splitting bomb in a stroller.
Thanks, you worthless cunt.
This is what I fear the most, in having children someday. I do not want to become the person who no longer gives a shit about whether or not their child is jumping up and down on public furniture or choking to death on a toy from a happy meal. I know my personality, and when I get completely frustrated with an individual, where I can no longer see a potential for change in attitude or behavior, I no longer give a shit about them. If you want to be a little asshole in public, go ahead son, that shit is on you. Fuck it.
My roommate is a prime example of this; I've done everything humanly possible to help him meet girls. I've both torn down and boosted his ego. I took him shopping for outfits, I've literally walked girls, gorgeous young women, to him and introduced them. I've given him pointers, pick up lines, and observational critiques... and yet he still refuses to change his attitude or traits. He assumes that something will just come along and take care of it for him.
Your child is exactly like my roommate - your child is needy and requires someone to follow behind him or her and close cupboard doors after them, wipe their asses, and tell them that their special and unique and no one is exactly like them. Bullshit. Your snot nosed little bastard or bitch, with their Bob the Builder over alls or pink Barbie tiara respectively is just another douchebag in the making. In fifteen years, it's likely that they will kill someone in a drunk driving accident, or fail out of college or go on welfare. They will neglect to pay their bills and hit their wives or husbands.
They'll be despondent and unappreciative to life's little things, and we'll all have you to thank, you cheap remorseless cocksucking uncaring piss-poor lay of a parent. Your genitalia should be revoked, you careless cad.
God help you, should I ever run into you and your brood ever again, because I will probably slit all your throats, systematically, in a way that I have yet to figure out, but give me some time and I will come up with the most psychologically damaging plan I can think of.
Trust me.
I find myself and the RM sitting down at the local KFC/Taco Bell here in town, and there's a mild circus going on. There's two women, having a conversation at table, completely oblivious to the five or 6 five-year-olds tearing the eatery apart, running amok in the restaurant, jumping on seats, throwing food, and other wise being undisciplined in public.
When I see situations like this, with the kids screaming at the tops of their lungs unchecked and treating the indoors like the outdoors I get tense. I stare and hatred builds inside of me. After many years of living on this earth, I've come to terms with the fact that the public spaces I inhabit do not necessarily belong to me and me alone for my own enjoyment, but to everyone else as well, but some things done in public are just too outrageous for even the most jaded observer.
You child unleashed is one of them.
I can't fully explain how deep my hatred goes for children when I see them just... going crazy for no reason. And yes, I understand the two mothers in this situation are probably on vacation, which means that for the rest of the god-fearing public, we're just going to have to endure the frustration of ridiculous kids ruining our lunches and giving us head aches, because god forbid a mother on vacation lift a finger to discipline a child of their own in public. But my rage is being pushed to a limit where it's likely I will pluck one of these little rug rats by his ears, and punt him through a glass window should he get within grabbing distance to me, is obviously not a concern to anyone but myself and maybe my roommate.
Attention: Your child is not a precious little being who in his heart and soul holds all that his sweet and innocent in this world. No, your child is an unrelenting asshole. Your child is the equivalent of a dickhead at a party who does nothing but blather on, story after boring story about his life, which no one cares about. Your child is an awkward example, and directly in relationship to, your poor parenting and inattentiveness. If you never really planned on having a child, or perhaps thought it was a trendy thing to do because your so-called friends from high school whom you've not been in contact with in over five years suddenly started to squirt them out last year, then the publics' resentment and loathing for you is your penance for bringing to life a sonic, ear splitting bomb in a stroller.
Thanks, you worthless cunt.
This is what I fear the most, in having children someday. I do not want to become the person who no longer gives a shit about whether or not their child is jumping up and down on public furniture or choking to death on a toy from a happy meal. I know my personality, and when I get completely frustrated with an individual, where I can no longer see a potential for change in attitude or behavior, I no longer give a shit about them. If you want to be a little asshole in public, go ahead son, that shit is on you. Fuck it.
My roommate is a prime example of this; I've done everything humanly possible to help him meet girls. I've both torn down and boosted his ego. I took him shopping for outfits, I've literally walked girls, gorgeous young women, to him and introduced them. I've given him pointers, pick up lines, and observational critiques... and yet he still refuses to change his attitude or traits. He assumes that something will just come along and take care of it for him.
Your child is exactly like my roommate - your child is needy and requires someone to follow behind him or her and close cupboard doors after them, wipe their asses, and tell them that their special and unique and no one is exactly like them. Bullshit. Your snot nosed little bastard or bitch, with their Bob the Builder over alls or pink Barbie tiara respectively is just another douchebag in the making. In fifteen years, it's likely that they will kill someone in a drunk driving accident, or fail out of college or go on welfare. They will neglect to pay their bills and hit their wives or husbands.
They'll be despondent and unappreciative to life's little things, and we'll all have you to thank, you cheap remorseless cocksucking uncaring piss-poor lay of a parent. Your genitalia should be revoked, you careless cad.
God help you, should I ever run into you and your brood ever again, because I will probably slit all your throats, systematically, in a way that I have yet to figure out, but give me some time and I will come up with the most psychologically damaging plan I can think of.
Trust me.
Lazy Sunday Pic Post: Doherty Watch!
This guy is a wreck. He looks how I feel most mornings I spend hung over...
In all seriousness, I understand that British guys are supposed to be pasty as fuck, but seriously, this guy is a shade paler than most corpses.
In all seriousness, I understand that British guys are supposed to be pasty as fuck, but seriously, this guy is a shade paler than most corpses.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
RIP DAFT
It all started about a month ago, really... the end of June. I had just gotten back from my trip to Laconia when my bike started to have problems.
It was run of the mill-type shit: I'd be cruising along and all of a sudden the RPMs would just drop out. I'd be doing about 70 mph at 6000 RPM and I'd go down to zero, nothing on the throttle, the needle on the tact wouldn't so much as shudder.
So I'd pull to the side of the road and check everything out. It would turn over hard, and I'd have to wait a while before it'd even start at all. So there I'd be, waiting on the side of the road for my bike to make up it's mind if it was going to start or not. It was dangerous and frustrating.
Over time (the span of about a week) the problem seemed to get worse. Added to the fact that I also dropped the bike in the parking lot after I slipped on a patch of sand while backing it, I really couldn't ride at all. It was enough to make me want to take a hammer to the damn thing and beat it until either it or I was broken.
The last straw, really, came about a week ago, when I was trying to limp the bike home from work, some 50 miles away, when it just died at the halfway point. I had to call for a tow, because the bike simply would not move another inch and when I was told that it'd be at least a two hour wait for the right guy to show up with the right equipment (in all actuality, when the guy did show up, he didn't bring the right shit anyway) I did what any good biker would do, and pushed the bike under the shade of a big tree, fold his jacket up under his ass, lean back against the bike and take a nap.
Once I got the bike to the shop, they said they'd take a good look at it. I described the problem as best I could in my layman language, and they told me they'd get it taken care of. One hundred and forty dollars and an oil change later, I pick up the bike only to have it do the exact same thing to me as it did before. Consider the camel's back to be broken.
So I brought it back that same day and complained that I was being charged for basically nothing. The guy behind the counter shrugged sheepishly and said "well, we ran it all day yesterday, it ran fine..."
"Did you 'run' it, or 'ride' it... there's a difference," I said back to him, still clutching my helmet, drenched in sweat from my kevlar jacket and jeans.
"Ran it," was the response.
So the bike's been sitting in the shop for a week, and I finally get a call on it. They tell me that the bike's currently in pieces, and it's going to need a 1500 dollar part if it ever hopes to see the road ever again.
What the fuck. Seriously. I only owe like 2500 on this goddamn thing. I bought it to SAVE me money, not become a fucking money pit.
I tell him on the phone not to bother with ordering the part. Just put the bike back together and I'll come by and pick it up. For the labor, I owe 600 dollars. All for him riding the bike down the road, tearing it apart, and putting it back together. Six hundred dollars.
The guy I bought it from told me he took exceptional care of it, did all the maintenance himself and it was in great condition, given the mileage. I should've been more dubious of the purchase when I thought I was getting a great deal.
So now the plan is to float the bike back to Maine, trade it in for either a new model (I do have my eye on a BMW K 1200 S....) or something that's certified pre-owned. Either way, I'm dealing with a dealership from now on.
This scar from this burn will never fade.
It was run of the mill-type shit: I'd be cruising along and all of a sudden the RPMs would just drop out. I'd be doing about 70 mph at 6000 RPM and I'd go down to zero, nothing on the throttle, the needle on the tact wouldn't so much as shudder.
So I'd pull to the side of the road and check everything out. It would turn over hard, and I'd have to wait a while before it'd even start at all. So there I'd be, waiting on the side of the road for my bike to make up it's mind if it was going to start or not. It was dangerous and frustrating.
Over time (the span of about a week) the problem seemed to get worse. Added to the fact that I also dropped the bike in the parking lot after I slipped on a patch of sand while backing it, I really couldn't ride at all. It was enough to make me want to take a hammer to the damn thing and beat it until either it or I was broken.
The last straw, really, came about a week ago, when I was trying to limp the bike home from work, some 50 miles away, when it just died at the halfway point. I had to call for a tow, because the bike simply would not move another inch and when I was told that it'd be at least a two hour wait for the right guy to show up with the right equipment (in all actuality, when the guy did show up, he didn't bring the right shit anyway) I did what any good biker would do, and pushed the bike under the shade of a big tree, fold his jacket up under his ass, lean back against the bike and take a nap.
Once I got the bike to the shop, they said they'd take a good look at it. I described the problem as best I could in my layman language, and they told me they'd get it taken care of. One hundred and forty dollars and an oil change later, I pick up the bike only to have it do the exact same thing to me as it did before. Consider the camel's back to be broken.
So I brought it back that same day and complained that I was being charged for basically nothing. The guy behind the counter shrugged sheepishly and said "well, we ran it all day yesterday, it ran fine..."
"Did you 'run' it, or 'ride' it... there's a difference," I said back to him, still clutching my helmet, drenched in sweat from my kevlar jacket and jeans.
"Ran it," was the response.
So the bike's been sitting in the shop for a week, and I finally get a call on it. They tell me that the bike's currently in pieces, and it's going to need a 1500 dollar part if it ever hopes to see the road ever again.
What the fuck. Seriously. I only owe like 2500 on this goddamn thing. I bought it to SAVE me money, not become a fucking money pit.
I tell him on the phone not to bother with ordering the part. Just put the bike back together and I'll come by and pick it up. For the labor, I owe 600 dollars. All for him riding the bike down the road, tearing it apart, and putting it back together. Six hundred dollars.
The guy I bought it from told me he took exceptional care of it, did all the maintenance himself and it was in great condition, given the mileage. I should've been more dubious of the purchase when I thought I was getting a great deal.
So now the plan is to float the bike back to Maine, trade it in for either a new model (I do have my eye on a BMW K 1200 S....) or something that's certified pre-owned. Either way, I'm dealing with a dealership from now on.
This scar from this burn will never fade.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Television's New Low
Since about 1999 reality television, the type of tv shows that depict "average people" consorting in all sorts of nefarious behavior, has been a staple in most house holds. What started with "Survivor" a battle of the fittest to combat elimination at the hands of your fellow contestants, has morphed into an obvious incantation of greed, which at it's root, is reality tv.
Vh1's "I Love Money" is about as grass roots as one can get, in the realm of greed-fed reality television. The formula is unsurprisingly simple: Take the most notorious cast offs of every Vh1 inspired "I'll Fuck a Has-Been for Fame/Love" show in the last two years, and strip away all the bullshit. There's no decrepit former gangster rapper to suppress your gag reflex around, nor a balding middle aged one hit wonder with a love for bandanas and scarves. It's simply the money these contestants will (again) prostrate themselves in front of while Americans sit at home and watch and wonder how much more embarrassing can this all really get.
News flash America: It's can't. This is it. This is the last stop on the Freak Train, make sure you bring all your belongings with you and have a great day. Stand clear of the closing doors.
The show is literally a who's-who of scandalous characters, mixed in with some other also-rans who didn't make the cut the first time around. There's Toastee, the Flava of Love cast-off of obscure ethnicity who may or may not have posed nude on the internet. There's Pumkin, the venomous spitter, who will forever be remembered for her attack on I Love New York's New York, and then fled cartoonishly towards a camera, wide eyed as a 7 foot tall black bitch (who easily could've been confused for Wesley Snipes in drag) clawed her backside into
ribbons.
There's also some of the contestants from the various I Love New Yorks. Minuscule Chance, as well as all around weird white guy Mr. Boston have been resurrected to compete in ridiculous challenges that seem to be left over from last season's "Road Rules/Real World Challenge: The Gauntlet Inferno of Herpes IX".
But beneath all this lacquer is a commendable effort being made on Vh1's behalf: They're cutting through the bullshit. When I watch a marathon of episodes where a bunch of strippers vie for Brett Michael's attention, I know it's complete bullshit. No one can fall in love with someone after knowing them for three weeks, while also plotting to kill a houseful of other demented and poorly supervised strippers. The body's chemistry does not work that way, no matter how much free alcohol and coke you give these people on a daily basis. So with the veneer gone, all that's left is greedy sociopath's battling gladiator-style for our entertainment.
We've gone completely full circle from the days of the Romans- where slaves and Christians would be led out towards lions and panthers and a crowd of people would watch. The drama would be played down and the violence played up, that's really the only difference when I watch a grown man named '12 Pack' stuff floating 100 dollar bills into a tiny little pair of swim trunks on cable television.
I say bravo to Vh1 for having the balls to do what no other television network has been willing to do in ten years; call America on the bullshit of reality television, while at the same time, calling itself on it as well.
Vh1's "I Love Money" is about as grass roots as one can get, in the realm of greed-fed reality television. The formula is unsurprisingly simple: Take the most notorious cast offs of every Vh1 inspired "I'll Fuck a Has-Been for Fame/Love" show in the last two years, and strip away all the bullshit. There's no decrepit former gangster rapper to suppress your gag reflex around, nor a balding middle aged one hit wonder with a love for bandanas and scarves. It's simply the money these contestants will (again) prostrate themselves in front of while Americans sit at home and watch and wonder how much more embarrassing can this all really get.
News flash America: It's can't. This is it. This is the last stop on the Freak Train, make sure you bring all your belongings with you and have a great day. Stand clear of the closing doors.
The show is literally a who's-who of scandalous characters, mixed in with some other also-rans who didn't make the cut the first time around. There's Toastee, the Flava of Love cast-off of obscure ethnicity who may or may not have posed nude on the internet. There's Pumkin, the venomous spitter, who will forever be remembered for her attack on I Love New York's New York, and then fled cartoonishly towards a camera, wide eyed as a 7 foot tall black bitch (who easily could've been confused for Wesley Snipes in drag) clawed her backside into
ribbons.There's also some of the contestants from the various I Love New Yorks. Minuscule Chance, as well as all around weird white guy Mr. Boston have been resurrected to compete in ridiculous challenges that seem to be left over from last season's "Road Rules/Real World Challenge: The Gauntlet Inferno of Herpes IX".
But beneath all this lacquer is a commendable effort being made on Vh1's behalf: They're cutting through the bullshit. When I watch a marathon of episodes where a bunch of strippers vie for Brett Michael's attention, I know it's complete bullshit. No one can fall in love with someone after knowing them for three weeks, while also plotting to kill a houseful of other demented and poorly supervised strippers. The body's chemistry does not work that way, no matter how much free alcohol and coke you give these people on a daily basis. So with the veneer gone, all that's left is greedy sociopath's battling gladiator-style for our entertainment.
We've gone completely full circle from the days of the Romans- where slaves and Christians would be led out towards lions and panthers and a crowd of people would watch. The drama would be played down and the violence played up, that's really the only difference when I watch a grown man named '12 Pack' stuff floating 100 dollar bills into a tiny little pair of swim trunks on cable television.
I say bravo to Vh1 for having the balls to do what no other television network has been willing to do in ten years; call America on the bullshit of reality television, while at the same time, calling itself on it as well.
What The Guy Sitting Across From Me on The Bus, Reading 'Maxim' Magazine, Is Probably Thinking:
Dude.
Dude.
DUDE...!
Oh my god, dude, seriously, this chick is so fucking hot. Look at her tits, and her legs and her ass. Damn. I wish I could find a girl like that. And she looks so natural too. 'Maxim' girls are so REAL. They don't air brush their models, no way.
I mean, I guess there's a number I can text and she'll get it, but it'll probably go through some sort of screener or something and get all fucked up in the process.
Let's see, what else is in here...
Wow, this chick is hot too. Where does Maxim find all these hotties, seriously dude? I mean, I live in this big city and I never see chicks like these. They must all live out in Long Island or something. Wow, look at this car on page 57. If I had a car like that, I could totally bang a chick like the one on page 93...
Let's flip ahead to the fashion section. Or should I say fag-tion section. Heh, seriously, who wears this shit? See, this is where Maxim gets it all wrong. Girls don't want a guy who dresses like he's attending some board meeting or something. Chicks want a dude who keeps it real. Like how I keep it real with my t shirts and jeans and Adidas sneakers.
Oh, the best part, the joke page. Hahaha, 'what did the lesbian vampire say to the other lesbian vampire? See you next month!' Hahaha, where does 'Maxim' come up with this stuff, seriously dude!
This has to be the best men's magazine ever. I mean, it's the only men's magazine I've ever really looked at. I mean, I looked at a 'GQ' one time at the doctor's office in the waiting room, but it seemed kinda gay to me. But 'Maxim' gets me. Maxim knows what every 19 year old needs to be told. Without Maxim, I'd probably never score hot chicks.
Or have the chance to, I mean.
Oh, what's back here... an Axe Body Spray sample. Dude that smells awesome! I'm so going to buy that shit at the Duane Reade next time I go in to pick up my allergy perscription. And I'm going to make sure I spray half the bottle all over myself too, just to make sure people can smell it and be like 'oh my god, what's that awesome smell?' from across the room. And then I can be all like "it's me dude, that awesome smell, it's me."
It's orangy dude, like an orange grove. That's probably what California smells like. And Cali's full of chick's dude. Hot ones.
Is that dude reading over my shoulder? What the fuck dude! Get your own 'Maxim', you dick... that's so not cool -to read over someone's shoulder. He's going to try to steal the pick up tricks in here and talk to that brunette up front over there before I do. Hold on, let me just finish reading this... It says I should 'break the ice' with a joke. Apparently, chicks like it when you insult them right off the bat. I should say something like 'Your hair looks better up,' or 'that's really not your color' because it takes them off their guard and it's better than 'hey can I have your number because I think you're hot,'
It also says something in here about only paying for the first date, and unless she brings you home for some 'hot bangin' after the first date, all bets are off. Ok, phew, ok, is she looking over here... wait, let me ... ok, no, I think she's checking out that other guy. Or did she just miss her stop? Or is she looking at the cover of the 'Maxim' to see Jennifer Love Hewitt's picture? I don't know.
You know what, I'm not going to talk to her after all. She's not nearly as hot as the Hometown Honey on page 122.
Dude.
DUDE...!
Oh my god, dude, seriously, this chick is so fucking hot. Look at her tits, and her legs and her ass. Damn. I wish I could find a girl like that. And she looks so natural too. 'Maxim' girls are so REAL. They don't air brush their models, no way.
I mean, I guess there's a number I can text and she'll get it, but it'll probably go through some sort of screener or something and get all fucked up in the process.
Let's see, what else is in here...
Wow, this chick is hot too. Where does Maxim find all these hotties, seriously dude? I mean, I live in this big city and I never see chicks like these. They must all live out in Long Island or something. Wow, look at this car on page 57. If I had a car like that, I could totally bang a chick like the one on page 93...
Let's flip ahead to the fashion section. Or should I say fag-tion section. Heh, seriously, who wears this shit? See, this is where Maxim gets it all wrong. Girls don't want a guy who dresses like he's attending some board meeting or something. Chicks want a dude who keeps it real. Like how I keep it real with my t shirts and jeans and Adidas sneakers.
Oh, the best part, the joke page. Hahaha, 'what did the lesbian vampire say to the other lesbian vampire? See you next month!' Hahaha, where does 'Maxim' come up with this stuff, seriously dude!
This has to be the best men's magazine ever. I mean, it's the only men's magazine I've ever really looked at. I mean, I looked at a 'GQ' one time at the doctor's office in the waiting room, but it seemed kinda gay to me. But 'Maxim' gets me. Maxim knows what every 19 year old needs to be told. Without Maxim, I'd probably never score hot chicks.
Or have the chance to, I mean.
Oh, what's back here... an Axe Body Spray sample. Dude that smells awesome! I'm so going to buy that shit at the Duane Reade next time I go in to pick up my allergy perscription. And I'm going to make sure I spray half the bottle all over myself too, just to make sure people can smell it and be like 'oh my god, what's that awesome smell?' from across the room. And then I can be all like "it's me dude, that awesome smell, it's me."
It's orangy dude, like an orange grove. That's probably what California smells like. And Cali's full of chick's dude. Hot ones.
Is that dude reading over my shoulder? What the fuck dude! Get your own 'Maxim', you dick... that's so not cool -to read over someone's shoulder. He's going to try to steal the pick up tricks in here and talk to that brunette up front over there before I do. Hold on, let me just finish reading this... It says I should 'break the ice' with a joke. Apparently, chicks like it when you insult them right off the bat. I should say something like 'Your hair looks better up,' or 'that's really not your color' because it takes them off their guard and it's better than 'hey can I have your number because I think you're hot,'
It also says something in here about only paying for the first date, and unless she brings you home for some 'hot bangin' after the first date, all bets are off. Ok, phew, ok, is she looking over here... wait, let me ... ok, no, I think she's checking out that other guy. Or did she just miss her stop? Or is she looking at the cover of the 'Maxim' to see Jennifer Love Hewitt's picture? I don't know.
You know what, I'm not going to talk to her after all. She's not nearly as hot as the Hometown Honey on page 122.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
It Doesn't Say "Stop" Fucktard.
Jim's had a busy week at work, so his posts have been thin at best. We on his editorial staff forgive him. I mean, the less he writes, the less we have to run around fact checking, and the less legal has to do, period.
Anyway, enjoy his rant. -ed.
I hate driving in this ridiculous state.
If you've grown up in New England, outside of Massachusetts, you'd freely associate terrible driving with any car with Mass plates. You see those white and red tags anywhere, even in-state, and you know that there's likely an asshole behind the wheel.
First before I go any further, let me state for the record that I'm a horrible driver. It's because I think every time I get into traffic I'm manauvering around the track at Darlington International Speedway. I tailgate, I don't use my signals, I speed, I make lane changes at the last second. I freely admit to doing these things.
What makes me a hypocrit to a certain extent is that people in this goddamn state do not know how to YIELD. What compounds this fact is that every ten feet on this fucking Hook, there's a fucking rotary.
Let me play out the scene as it typically unfolds in front of me: I'll be driving home from work along this one particular stretch of highway, and I'll be approaching this big rotary. There will be about five cars ahead of me, and I'll look towards the left, where traffic on the rotary should be coming from.
But there's no traffic. Nothing. Maybe a lonely fucking tumbleweed will be blowing across the road, but that it. It looks like some post-apocalyptic waste land.
And yet, I see break lights. I see a shit ton of red lights, lighting up, and the guy out front of everyone, with his MA tags, has come to a complete hault.
IT'S A FUCKING YIELD! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?! IT SURE AS HELL DOESN'T MEAN STOP, BECAUSE IF YOU WERE TO STOP, THERE'D BE A FUCKING STOP SIGN, YOU INFECTED DICK!
So naturally, everyone slams on the breaks and it causes a back up in traffic. It's enough to make me want to go down to the zoo, kidnap a monkey, crack open it's skull, scoop out it's brains with a melonballer, and then proceed to poop into the skull cavity.
The way a rotary is supposed to work is that everyone just... goes. You just enter traffic seamlessly, and then leave traffic when you get to your little exit. You leave, someone else gets on. Granted, this isn't always the case, because large volumes of traffic can hinder the easy off and on of a rotary, but when there's zero traffic, you should just GO.
I see this as a problem too with highway on ramps in this state. Granted, they're ridiculously curved (like my cock) so seeing on-coming traffic is a little tricky, but coming to a complete stop at the yield sign at the end of the ramp is dangerous.
I'm going to be coming in behind you at about 65 mph, my cell phone in my one hand, a Dunk's ice coffee in the other, screaming at my roommate who for the 18th time this month has forgotten to do his share of the dishes, all while getting blown by my girlfriend to a soundtrack consisting of nothing by 80's hair metal, turned up to 11. I'm not expecting you to be sitting there, meagerly waiting your turn to join the fucking circus that is driving in Massachusetts, I'm going to be a Tomahawk Missel and your back end is going to be some Insurgent's asshole.
Just get out there, that's what I do. I come screaming around the corner at a high rate of speed and just say "fuck it." They have breaks, and it's a yield. Granted, I'm supposed to be giving way, but there's nothing there saying I'm to come to a complete stop- as far as I understand traffic laws. And I was a cop.
Anyway, enjoy his rant. -ed.
I hate driving in this ridiculous state.
If you've grown up in New England, outside of Massachusetts, you'd freely associate terrible driving with any car with Mass plates. You see those white and red tags anywhere, even in-state, and you know that there's likely an asshole behind the wheel.
First before I go any further, let me state for the record that I'm a horrible driver. It's because I think every time I get into traffic I'm manauvering around the track at Darlington International Speedway. I tailgate, I don't use my signals, I speed, I make lane changes at the last second. I freely admit to doing these things.
What makes me a hypocrit to a certain extent is that people in this goddamn state do not know how to YIELD. What compounds this fact is that every ten feet on this fucking Hook, there's a fucking rotary.
Let me play out the scene as it typically unfolds in front of me: I'll be driving home from work along this one particular stretch of highway, and I'll be approaching this big rotary. There will be about five cars ahead of me, and I'll look towards the left, where traffic on the rotary should be coming from.
But there's no traffic. Nothing. Maybe a lonely fucking tumbleweed will be blowing across the road, but that it. It looks like some post-apocalyptic waste land.
And yet, I see break lights. I see a shit ton of red lights, lighting up, and the guy out front of everyone, with his MA tags, has come to a complete hault.
IT'S A FUCKING YIELD! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?! IT SURE AS HELL DOESN'T MEAN STOP, BECAUSE IF YOU WERE TO STOP, THERE'D BE A FUCKING STOP SIGN, YOU INFECTED DICK!
So naturally, everyone slams on the breaks and it causes a back up in traffic. It's enough to make me want to go down to the zoo, kidnap a monkey, crack open it's skull, scoop out it's brains with a melonballer, and then proceed to poop into the skull cavity.
The way a rotary is supposed to work is that everyone just... goes. You just enter traffic seamlessly, and then leave traffic when you get to your little exit. You leave, someone else gets on. Granted, this isn't always the case, because large volumes of traffic can hinder the easy off and on of a rotary, but when there's zero traffic, you should just GO.
I see this as a problem too with highway on ramps in this state. Granted, they're ridiculously curved (like my cock) so seeing on-coming traffic is a little tricky, but coming to a complete stop at the yield sign at the end of the ramp is dangerous.
I'm going to be coming in behind you at about 65 mph, my cell phone in my one hand, a Dunk's ice coffee in the other, screaming at my roommate who for the 18th time this month has forgotten to do his share of the dishes, all while getting blown by my girlfriend to a soundtrack consisting of nothing by 80's hair metal, turned up to 11. I'm not expecting you to be sitting there, meagerly waiting your turn to join the fucking circus that is driving in Massachusetts, I'm going to be a Tomahawk Missel and your back end is going to be some Insurgent's asshole.
Just get out there, that's what I do. I come screaming around the corner at a high rate of speed and just say "fuck it." They have breaks, and it's a yield. Granted, I'm supposed to be giving way, but there's nothing there saying I'm to come to a complete stop- as far as I understand traffic laws. And I was a cop.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Special 'Lazy Sunday Pic Post' Five Days Early!
As the new iPhone 3G hit stores last Friday, this group of soon-to-be consumers in Tokyo wait in line while wearing animal masks. Instead of horses and polar bears, maybe they should've gone with sheep...?The jokes write themselves, people.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
You're An Idiot, Vol 1.
Sometimes people don't know they're completely retarded. Other times, people around said idiot don't realize that person is completely inept in all facets of life, either. The latter is the case of Carlos Mencia.
So I figured that I would start breaking down ways to tell if you yourself, or someone you love, is a collossal idiot. This month: How Your Choice in Movies Makes You an Asshole.
My roommate tends to go see a lot of movies because he's only 19 and there's not much else the poor boy can do legally in these parts. As a by-product of this, he sees a lot of shitty films, only, he doesn't realize what a shitty film is.
Tell tale signs you're watching a shitty film:
-Stars Mark Walhberg in a leading role (excemption: "Boogie Nights")
-Is from "two of the six writers of 'Scary Movie'"
-A Wayans touched it.
-Star mugs for the camera every chance they get, during the preview.
What's unfortunate is that the majority of the American movie-going population falls under the same umbrella as my hapless roommate. No one really knows what a shitty movie-going experience is. Sure, they can be annoyed as they sit in the theatre by other patrons/sticky floors, but they neglect to realize that what's on the screen plays a large part in dumbing themselves down.
I pay a lot of attention to film reviews, but mostly I can just tell if a movie is going to be utter shit. I can see the preview either at the theatre, or on tv, and just know. It's hard to explain, and yes, it's just short of judging a book by it's cover, but I know when there's a film not worth my ten dollars. It has a certain stink to it; an aroma that's not unlike dead fish under a hot sun.
I've also been wrong before too, but not often. I had both written off "Gladiator" and "Ironman" as forgettable summer "blockbusters" and pleasently surprised how much I enjoyed those two films. "Gladiator" is actually one of my all time favorites. And I've missed the call too, thinking "The Kingdom" last Fall's forgetable Jaime Foxx-middle eastern terrorist cash-in pic was going to be epic, but found it was largely disappointing.
This was an actual (albeit paraphrased for these purposes) conversation I had with my roommate a few weeks ago:
RM: Dude, let's go see 'Love Guru!'
(He constantly tries to bait me into going to movies. Honestly, I feel awful that I don't go with him, but given his taste in film, I'd rather inject rat poison directly into my eyeballs)
Me: Umm, no.
RM: Why not?!
Me: Because it looks terrible, Mike Meyers is a one trick pony who thinks that because he dresses in various fat suits and costumes, he can fool movie goers into thinking he's talented and has range as an actor. His latest film only reinforces that. Except for the first Austin Powers, each one of his films to date is basically a stretched, unfunny SNL skit.
The RM gives me a blank stare.
RM: Ok, let's go see 'Meet Dave.' I know you want to see that!
And I appriciate his enthusiasm. I really do. But again, to infer that I 'want to see' 'Meet Dave', the abysmal Eddie Murphy - 'Men in Black' - Bootleg - Vehicle, is somewhat insulting.
Me: No.
Rm: Sigh, why not?
Me: Have you seen the previews of that movie?! I'm not going to subject myself to another one of Eddie Murphy's ego-tripped-tipped yawnfests. You know why all of his movies in the last ten years have starred just Eddie Murphy playing different characters? It's because no other actor in Hollywood will work with him. He's an enormous asshole, and he continues to make films that make me want to eat a bagel laced with broken shards of glass and AIDS needles.
RM: Well, I'm gonna go, peace out.
And so he goes, and sure enough, two hours later, this is what I get:
RM: Yeah bro, "Meet Dave" sucked.
In other news, I tell my roommate that the stove top is hot, he touches it, gets burned. More at 11.
Seriously though, I browse through rottentomatoes all the time, and read through the (obviously) bad reviews for some of these films I know to be bad. I don't know why I do it, I just do it. Maybe I'm reinforcing my talent for picking stinkers a mile away, or maybe I like seeing a man being kicked while he's down. Regardless, what blows me away is some of the POSITIVE reviews that are kinda sprinkled over the critics review pages for movies that should otherwised be banned from viewing.
This gem from the 'Hancock' page:
"Smith proves again, he's the king of summer blockbusters in this truly genius alt-concept of Super Hero (his caps) genre movies!" -Kit Comner, Ain't It Cool News.
Now I understand studios sometimes pay off film critics to write "good reviews" on what the studio will know to be a film DOA at the theatre. But I mean, these people look like complete assholes next to the other 97% of the critics, who were not being paid, who actually wrote down what they thought.
Only if you were say, a President of the United States, had an approval rating hovering around 26% and still thought you couldhelp the presumptive GOP candidate would you be a bigger idiot.
So I figured that I would start breaking down ways to tell if you yourself, or someone you love, is a collossal idiot. This month: How Your Choice in Movies Makes You an Asshole.
My roommate tends to go see a lot of movies because he's only 19 and there's not much else the poor boy can do legally in these parts. As a by-product of this, he sees a lot of shitty films, only, he doesn't realize what a shitty film is.
Tell tale signs you're watching a shitty film:
-Stars Mark Walhberg in a leading role (excemption: "Boogie Nights")
-Is from "two of the six writers of 'Scary Movie'"
-A Wayans touched it.
-Star mugs for the camera every chance they get, during the preview.
What's unfortunate is that the majority of the American movie-going population falls under the same umbrella as my hapless roommate. No one really knows what a shitty movie-going experience is. Sure, they can be annoyed as they sit in the theatre by other patrons/sticky floors, but they neglect to realize that what's on the screen plays a large part in dumbing themselves down.
I pay a lot of attention to film reviews, but mostly I can just tell if a movie is going to be utter shit. I can see the preview either at the theatre, or on tv, and just know. It's hard to explain, and yes, it's just short of judging a book by it's cover, but I know when there's a film not worth my ten dollars. It has a certain stink to it; an aroma that's not unlike dead fish under a hot sun.
I've also been wrong before too, but not often. I had both written off "Gladiator" and "Ironman" as forgettable summer "blockbusters" and pleasently surprised how much I enjoyed those two films. "Gladiator" is actually one of my all time favorites. And I've missed the call too, thinking "The Kingdom" last Fall's forgetable Jaime Foxx-middle eastern terrorist cash-in pic was going to be epic, but found it was largely disappointing.
This was an actual (albeit paraphrased for these purposes) conversation I had with my roommate a few weeks ago:
RM: Dude, let's go see 'Love Guru!'
(He constantly tries to bait me into going to movies. Honestly, I feel awful that I don't go with him, but given his taste in film, I'd rather inject rat poison directly into my eyeballs)
Me: Umm, no.
RM: Why not?!
Me: Because it looks terrible, Mike Meyers is a one trick pony who thinks that because he dresses in various fat suits and costumes, he can fool movie goers into thinking he's talented and has range as an actor. His latest film only reinforces that. Except for the first Austin Powers, each one of his films to date is basically a stretched, unfunny SNL skit.
The RM gives me a blank stare.
RM: Ok, let's go see 'Meet Dave.' I know you want to see that!
And I appriciate his enthusiasm. I really do. But again, to infer that I 'want to see' 'Meet Dave', the abysmal Eddie Murphy - 'Men in Black' - Bootleg - Vehicle, is somewhat insulting.
Me: No.
Rm: Sigh, why not?
Me: Have you seen the previews of that movie?! I'm not going to subject myself to another one of Eddie Murphy's ego-tripped-tipped yawnfests. You know why all of his movies in the last ten years have starred just Eddie Murphy playing different characters? It's because no other actor in Hollywood will work with him. He's an enormous asshole, and he continues to make films that make me want to eat a bagel laced with broken shards of glass and AIDS needles.
RM: Well, I'm gonna go, peace out.
And so he goes, and sure enough, two hours later, this is what I get:
RM: Yeah bro, "Meet Dave" sucked.
In other news, I tell my roommate that the stove top is hot, he touches it, gets burned. More at 11.
Seriously though, I browse through rottentomatoes all the time, and read through the (obviously) bad reviews for some of these films I know to be bad. I don't know why I do it, I just do it. Maybe I'm reinforcing my talent for picking stinkers a mile away, or maybe I like seeing a man being kicked while he's down. Regardless, what blows me away is some of the POSITIVE reviews that are kinda sprinkled over the critics review pages for movies that should otherwised be banned from viewing.
This gem from the 'Hancock' page:
"Smith proves again, he's the king of summer blockbusters in this truly genius alt-concept of Super Hero (his caps) genre movies!" -Kit Comner, Ain't It Cool News.
Now I understand studios sometimes pay off film critics to write "good reviews" on what the studio will know to be a film DOA at the theatre. But I mean, these people look like complete assholes next to the other 97% of the critics, who were not being paid, who actually wrote down what they thought.
Only if you were say, a President of the United States, had an approval rating hovering around 26% and still thought you couldhelp the presumptive GOP candidate would you be a bigger idiot.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Lazy Sunday Pic Post
Since moving in together, The Lady and I's pillow to person ratio has grown exponentially. I have no idea why this is, but I think it has something to do with science.
See here:
This was my bed right when I moved in.
This is my bed, as of this morning. What the hell happened?
See here:
This was my bed right when I moved in.
This is my bed, as of this morning. What the hell happened?
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Short Fiction: Immigrants and Out of Towners: On Loan
Julian’s Bar and Grill sat at the cross section of
Surrounding Carpicize were remnants of the old Capasso Regime, life long members who each equally shared a distaste and distrust for their new Diva. Martina De Rossi, though was in attendance at the funeral, many found her inaccessible and isolated.
“For twenty-two years I stood by Don Giovanni with all the decisions he made, I did my best to help steer this family in the right directions. But this I will not stand for,” Carpicize said from the head of the table. He was in his fifties, but looked forty with his jet black slicked back hair and narrow face. He wore a dark black and maroon suit, his fingers shined with various rings. Down each side of the table were senior members of the Family, each in their late 30s to early 50s, some fat some super skinny; killers and hustlers and thieves sitting around. Everyone not trusting the other more than they could see each other, especially in these tempestuous times of instability. “I will not have an outsider, especially a little girl, take control of the family. A family I worked so hard to bring back from the edge of death!” And Capricize slammed his fist down on the table, emotion splayed out all over his face. He received applause from the thirteen men sitting around him.
“But could it be so bad? I mean, I hear she’s done wonderful things for the Panera Family in
“You think this is good for us? She’s not a fuckin’ war-time capo even! The fucking Don’s funeral is front page news on the fuckin’ Post and Daily News! The fucking melanzane can read, Bobby! They’re going to know we’re a fuckin’ rudderless ship! Maddon’ if my father was alive to see this shit!” And Carpicize was standing now, leaning over the table. The fat faced Mafioso turned red and faced forward.
Carpicize sipped some wine and cleared his throat. “Now understand me here, I’m not saying I should be the boss, but I’m saying that the boss should come from within. And this little principessa needs to go.” His eyes grew wide to make sure everyone got the message. “She needs to go before she grabs on to too much. She needs to go before she meets with any other bosses in any other families. No allegiances can be made, nothing. She needs to be taken out, sooner the better for everyone.” And everyone dumbly nodded along.
“I know some guys up in
“Ok, we’ll talk here in a minute about that.”
Sean Clark walked into the 4-7’s Command Condo and found himself looking at the faces of NYPD’s top brass. He stopped short, slowly closing the door behind him, as three men in deep blue suits sat with their elbows on their knees, cups of coffee in their hands.
“Where’ve you been?” Captain Ramirez said from his office.
“Uh… I had a date?”
“The Commissioner wants a full report on the going ons with the Capasso Family since you’ve seemed to cozy up with this … new capo.” Ramirez said in a hushed tone.
“Heh, I got some news for you then,”
“Well, whatever news you do have, the boss has been waiting for an hour to hear it. I hope for your ass’s sake that this news you got is going to be good.”
“Oh, just you wait…” And
“Ahem, um, sir this is Officer Sean Clark, who’s been working on the Capasso Case.” And Commissioner Kelly extended his hand and
“Looks like you’ve been worked over officer,” the Commissioner said.
“Yeah, you could say that,”
“So what’s to report?”
“Heh, get ready for this,” and
“With the Capasso Family floundering as of late, Don Giovanni decided to look outside for some help to redirect the flow of money into the family. As we know, the Italians have been slowly pushed out from the major money making schemes in this city. But such is not the case in
“That this lady capo is the new boss of the Capassos?” The commissioner said in slight awe.
“Yeah. That means it’s now the De Rossi Family,”
“De Rossi? What do we know about this De Rossi?”
“She’s twenty-four, Canadian National, has a huge apartment on the Upper East Side, well guarded. She’s somewhat clueless as to how much shit she’s in,” and
“Is this credible information?” The Commissioner asked.
“Our CIs are some of the best in the business,” Ramirez said.
“I’ll give you the short version,”
“’The Carpenter’? That’s a funny nickname,” one of the men with the Commissioner said. Ramirez and Clark exchanged a look.
“A ‘Carpenter’ in mafia-speak,” started Ramirez, “is someone who makes bodies disappear. ‘Painters’ do the hits, ‘Carpenters’ get rid of the bodies.” Ramirez said low.
“Oh,” said the man.
“Anyway gentleman, what course of action do we take in light of all of this?” The commissioner asked.
“Well, there’s pros and cons to the situation,” Ramirez started. “We could let them take De Rossi out. She’s the only real leadership element in their organization, and let Carpicize take over. He’s an ineffectual leader, and most of the Capasso Family is too dumb to understand that. Without strong leadership we could bury the major crime family members by the end of next year, and the scraps we don’t get will easily fall in with other families and pollute them from the inside. The other option we have is that we protect De Rossi and use our man here,” and Ramirez nodded to
“How close are you to this De Rossi, officer?”
“Um, I’m uh,”
“She’s taken a liking to him, you could say that,” and Ramirez smiled. The commissioner nodded knowingly.
“Then I say we use our asset here to get in close. I don’t see a need to draw blood over this issue. If things get too hot, we can offer her protection, maybe even turn her into a state’s witness, especially if she’s being chased around this city by trigger happy wops. From here on in, your officer wears a wire,” and the commissioner stood and his men followed.
“Uh sir, I don’t think that’s a good idea,”
“Heh, if you’re going to be hanging out with your new girlfriend all day, officer, you’re going to be getting us some prime cut information, and that’s that.” And the commissioner shook hands with Ramirez and Clark and let himself out.
An hour later
“Hey,” he said as he answered.
“What are you doing tonight?” She asked. Her voice was rich and the accent always put a smile on his face. He looked around the empty condo, Ramirez had gone home for the night already, leaving him to type up some reports that he didn’t really want to do.
“Nothing, just hanging out, why what’s up?”
“I’m having a late dinner with Jack Carpicize at Tavern on the Green in
“Yeah, what time do you want to meet up?” He could instantly hear the happiness in her voice.
“Dinner’s at ten, so be there before that, ok? I guess he’s already reserved a table, so just use his name when you get there, ok? And make sure you look nice,”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” and he closed his phone, got up and started looking through his dressier clothes.
Tavern on the Green was the
Clark arrived a little late wearing a black suit coat, designer jeans and a button up shirt that he left a little unbuttoned at the top. Even though it was night time he wore his Ray Ban aviators to help conceal the bruises on his face which were still healing. Under his expensive clothes he wore his Glock 19 on his waist, no holster, and deep down against his skin he had the tiny wire going from just under his throat down to the little digital recorder at the small of his back. Even wearing it made him excited and jumpy. He was sweating and swearing under his breath.
He walked in and the maitre d asked him if he was with a party. He gave the name Carpicize and was instantly shown to a table in the way back where Jack the Carpenter and Martina De Rossi were already seated, drinking wine and nibbling on an appetizer.
“There he is!” De Rossi said, a little tipsy already. She stood and gave
“Hey,”
“Controllarlo” and he pointed to
“No Jack, no, you’re not going to pat down a friend of mine in front of me. That is a great insult where I’m from!” The goon stood behind
“Well, welcome to
He pulled it out by the grip and showed it to Carpicize. The Carpenter nodded and pointed to the table. A few of the other diners gasped at the sight of the weapon but there wasn’t much fanfare.
“You weren’t going to use that thing on me tonight, were you sonny?” He asked across the table.
“No,”
“I didn’t think so, but for dinner, I’m going to hold on to it, ok?”
“That’s fine, as long as I get it back,”
“You know, I didn’t even want you here tonight, I wanted this to be a meeting of Family members, to discuss the direction of the Capas-, excuse me, the De Rossi Family. And now I get to look at your Mick face all night while I try to enjoy my chicken spiccola,”
“Ugh, you’re such an ass,” De Rossi said from her seat, and forked a ravioli into her mouth. Carpicize smiled at her and turned back to
“What is it you do in
“I do a little bit of this and a little bit of that,”
“Mm, I love a guy who thinks I’m so stupid to think I don’t know when someone’s avoiding a question,”
“Last time I checked Mr. Carpicize, I didn’t report to anyone at this table. I’m just hear on loan,”
“Yes, yes, isn’t that the trend lately. Outsiders coming into town on loan, it’s very interesting,” And De Rossi cut him a look from over her wine glass. “Anyway, I’m going to talk in Italian to Ms. De Rossi now, so if you’ll excuse us for a moment?” And he turned towards Martina. They began to converse in Italian, and the exchange became very heated.
“I’m sorry it has to be this way, Mr. Capricize,” and she began to walk and wobble her way out of the restaurant. Carpicize smiled at
“Why don’t you go catch up with your mistress, lap dog?” And
Outside Martina De Rossi was standing in her heels and dress, lightly touching her face with a napkin she took from inside.
The truck came to a stop in front of them, and Michael (or was it Michael Anthony?) got the door for them.
“What’d he say to you back there, in Italian?” He asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Bullshit, you’re not gonna tell me?”
“There’s nothing to tell, so why bother?” The truck slowly pulled out into traffic.
“Well, Martina, I know something’s wrong, you’re crying. What’d he say?”
“Nothing, I’m fine!”
“What’re you talking about? I’m asking you right now what he said!”
“But you wouldn’t do anything about it! There’s nothing you can do!”
“Listen to me, just tell me what he said and I’l” And suddenly there was a screech of tires and the driver, Michael or Michael Anthony cursed aloud.
“Merde!” And the front of the
“Are you ok?”
Suddenly gunfire burst outside and people started to scream.
He sat up and pulled De Rossi into the back of the truck again, where they had started out, telling her to stay down. He pressed her head down to his knees, and drew his pistol out from his jeans and tried to see what was going on outside. More gunfire, automatic sounding started to cut through the SUV, loud metallic pings and pops. Glass shattering around them.
He glanced up and saw a man in a black ski mask running up to the car and he got ready. The rear door where they were sitting came flying open and a man in a leather jacket with a ski mask leveled a shotgun at them.
“Go go!”
“A gun, no! I don’t do guns!” She yelled over more clattering of machine gun fire.
“This is not an option, take the fucking gun Martina!” And he shoved it into her hands. He bent and picked up the pump 12 gauge shotgun and racked another round into the chamber, catching the unused shell in his hand and recycling it back into magazine tube. He looked back at De Rossi who was holding the pistol awkwardly and prayed that they got out of this alive.
Things got quiet with just the sound of crunching glass and cackling of fire. Slowly
“Come on, we gotta move!”
“Stop here,” and they pulled in behind a large granite block in the park. Sirens were approaching and
De Rossi was crying and slumped down against the rock.
“Ok, let’s get out of here,” and pulled De Rossi up.
They got back to her apartment, after taking a long hike to the north end of the park, and then a bus over to the UES. Once they got up to her place via private elevator,
He stalked around the three floors of her apartment with a fireplace poker and when he was satisfied that they didn’t have anyone waiting for them here he came back and got De Rossi.
They both had a drink in her library, by candle light and she clung closely to him. He played with her hair until it seemed like she was asleep.
He tried to move from under her, but when he did, she clung to him tighter. He sighed and then picked her up and carried her back to her bedroom where he laid her flat on her bed.
The bedroom had a big king sized four poster bed with sheer sheets hanging down. It also had a wall of floor to ceiling windows that showed the entire city and park lit up.
“You can’t go!” She said sleepily.
“I gotta,” he said back to her.
“Noooo” and she trailed off.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,”
“But I don’t want to be alone, stay.” And she tugged dangerously at his shirt by the wire. He groaned.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea Martina,”
“Why not? Do you have a girlfriend back in
“No, it’s not that, it’s”
“So stay.” She looked into his eyes, hers being so dark in the low light.
“Lemme go change in the bathroom then,” and she let him go and he walked over to the bathroom which was roughly the size of his first apartment in
He stripped down to his boxers, tucking the wire into the back pocket of the jeans and came back out. She opened up the bed for him and he slid under the sheets next to her. He found her naked already and before he could say anything, she kissed him hard on his lips, her fingers tugging at his boxers.
“Why did you bother to keep these on?”
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