Laziness pt. 16

Apologies, I had a super nice, funny and oh so clever post that probably would have changed not only your world but the entire world we live in. It had already rocked my world and was everything that quality time wasting should be. With all the humility in the world I can safely say it was probably why you were born. Alas, blogger decided to crash for no apparent reason and the autosave failed. If you're given to hate, feel free to direct your blame towards whichever group you hate. Personally, I'm pretty sure it's these clowns below fault. Just look at that smug satisfaction. Regardless, it is lost to the mists of time much like El Dorado, Atlantis and the Ark of the Covenant. Boy, am I mad. Grrr. Grrr. Grrr. See?

Your account at a glance

The EPJ is gone today. Something about taking her granddaughter (lil' EPJ)to her first movie. This was apparently going to be a big deal. For the EPJ anyway. I suspect at 2 1/2, lil' EPJ will be more interested in the comfy seats in which to nap than any celluloid action. (Warning: predictable Hollywood slam straight ahead) Given what's available at your local overpriced, neon-encapsulated megaplex these days, that's just as well.

Nevertheless, the EPJ quizzed me intermittently about what would be appropriate for this particular outing. My first choice was Drag Me To Hell (which was actually pretty good for a mainstream, modern horror flick, btw), partly for it's title; I thought it to be fairly apropos. Plus, I figured it would probably scar lil' EPJ for life, or at the very least ensure that she'll not request to see another movie until she's about 24 years old. As a result, the entire EPJ clan would save a little scratch and be able to buy that pony for lil's 8th birthday. I'd feel really good about myself as well, which is probably the most important factor. Self esteem, it's not just for winners anymore. Alas, DMTH has already vacated screens across America so I think she decided to go with my second choice, the slightly more kid-friendly, Ice Age 3.

Moving on...

The great car search continues. While I am closer chronologically, I can't say that I'm all that much closer to an actual decision. One of the more good aspects of the interwebs is the ability to do everything but the test drive in the comfort of my pajamas. True, I could do that also but fear it might cause me to be taken less serious as a customer. There are times when being misunderestimated is a good thing, but the cutthroat world of car haggling is not one of them. I need to be completely on guard and wise to all the nefarious ways of the car salesmen. A car dealership is, as George Constanza correctly stated, "Thunderdome", a place where the normal rules of society are not so much disregarded as nonexistent and floor mats cost extra.

Salesman generally do not have the most favorable reputations. Most people would rather walk in front of a train if it meant avoiding listening to the sales pitch of some fabbo new product. Yes, people literally would rather die than have that Sham Wow tool screaming in their ear. And while I understand it's is the car salesman's job, I generally have no desire to be bombarded with all sorts of meaningless facts and figures. I couldn't care less about safety, foot pounds of torque and what have you. I just want to drive a car that looks cool and look cool driving a car because, let's face it, I'm not getting any younger. If oversized rims and curb feelers will stave off middle age for a couple of more years I can go along with that. So I can do all manner of research and build the perfect machine before even stepping onto a showroom floor.

In short, I can avoid Thunderdome until the last moment. There's probably a good life philosophy in there somewhere as well. Unlike for the floor mats, I'm not even going to charge extra.

Here in my car I feel safest of all

The search for a new car continues. I've pretty much narrowed it down to a couple of choices: a 1998 Ford Taurus and a 2001 Pontiac Aztek. I realize this violates my previously stated anti-American policy, but let me tell you after driving both of these dream machines, the rough part isn't going to be choosing one. It's going to be knowing I'll never get back all those wasted years of not riding in such style. Detroit, I take back everything bad I've ever said bad about you. Except for all that murder capital business. I know sometimes you just gotta kill someone, but the law's the law.

The Taurus (seen below--Old Glory is a nice touch, no?) is probably the more sensible of the two choices. The resignation that oozes from the car's everyman design is all too relative to me. The plush cloth seats, AM/FM radio/cassette remind of a simpler time when the endless choices of satellite radio and ipods were solely the realm of old Flash Gordon serials. What the engine lacks in power it more than makes up for in safety and adequate gas mileage. Plus, I shan't have to worry about those pesky speeding tickets anymore. And should they ever be needed, I feel confident that the seat belts and driver airbag--both standard--will provide sufficient protection. The older I get the more safety and economy counts over power and general badassness. This is one of the more boring, if useful, characteristics of adulthood. In other words, kids, kill yourself now.

I want to be adult and sensible and everything that the world expects of me but this Aztek pulls at my devil-may-care side with a grip that is reminiscent of something that has a powerful grip. Though I have a general aversion to fun, I'm not wholly allergic. Indeed, this hair does come down occasionally; the Aztek is the perfect vehicle to drive me to such points that approach frivolity. A little too hip to be just an SUV. A little too cool to be a station wagon. It's the perfect vehicle for any rapidly approaching middle age dolt who wants to drive around in a vehicle that assures no one will ever say, "Hey, let's take your car tonight." That's a sort of exclusivity that money can't buy. Well, technically it can, but I trust my point is understood.

I've always had a soft spot in my heart for titanic failures like Crystal Pepsi and, um, the Titanic. Though it has yet achieved the cultural status of those mistakes, I like to think of the Aztek (above, hastily on its way to be traded for scrap) as the Edsel of my generation. However, I'm fairly certain there were more Edsels on the road at its peak than Azteks at its. That may still be the case. I can only hope that the Aztek's designer got the firing for which he/she was obviously going.

Since buying a car is one of the more expensive purchases I'll make this year, I'm not going to rush. I may insouciantly buy that mink stole, but a car is entirely different. Its purchase requires deep thought, research and some consultation with a higher power of my choosing. The bright side of narrowing things down to such contenders is that I can take my time. There's little danger either machine will be sold before next Christmas because folks nowadays place too much significance on aesthetics. That's an unfortunate side effect of modern life and one that I'd like to change. Michael Jackson told us lo those many years that change, for him, started with the man in the mirror. He also told that if you ain't bad, you ain't nothing, but that's not really relevant, I suppose. After all, we are the world.

Adorableness pt. 2

This is Sam. While you coo at his adorable Mickey ears he will claw your face off with his Wolverine claws. There will be blood.

He thought of cars

Fun fact #1: There are precisely two local people who drive a Volkswagen. Whether this is because most folks around here hate affordable German engineering or simply hate Germans in general is currently unknown.

Fun fact #2: Both of said drivers work in the same office. I drive a Jetta. My radio is held in place with a screwdriver whose handle has faded due to 9+ years of exposure. The EPJ drives a bug. I suspect it goes without saying, but it's a convertible. I got my car in 1999. Hers is a demon from 2007. Neither have flames running down the sides. Both have similar mileage. This is surprising as I hate the environment far more than her and often drive around aimlessly for hours.

Fun fact #3: We may both be about to get new vehicles. Ooh, scary. The compressor in my car has exploded or something. Though my grease monkey credentials are a little lacking, I believe the compressor is an important part of the internal combustion engine. This, as the kids say, sucks. As for the EPJ, I'm not really sure why she needs a new one. Perhaps because July came in on a Wednesday. As I told Andy the other night, when it comes to me getting a new car, I can see the starting line in the distance. Using that same metaphor, I suppose the EPJ has just signed up for a race that may be held at some undetermined point. Impulse being one of her stronger assets.

I've made no decisions on exactly which international motor conglomerate will get my hard-earned dollar. However, it will almost certainly be an international because I hate Detroit or maybe it's America. Marisol asked me if I had any ideas and I replied I wasn't really sure. A combination of simplicity, sensibility and sophistication are my main objectives. I told her I was leaning towards a Maserati. I've always had a thing for them since Joe Walsh talked about his in "Life's Been Good."

Chevrolet has brought back the Camaro just in time for its Chapter 11 fire sale so that's an option too. I would be willing to break my anti-American stance if I could wrap my racing gloves around the wheel of that screaming yellow beast. Marisol would undoubtedly have to share me with every female, and most males, I come in contact with. But in order to be seen in such a sweet, sweet ride I think she'd be cool with that. She'd have to bring the Journey though.

As an aside, I can think of no better way to save GM. Bring back a car whose potential market consists entirely of 16-year old spoiled "princesses" and over-tanned, lunk-headed dudes struggling through some mid-life crisis. Perhaps that's why I'm not a CEO.

Aqualung, my friend

Since my last post the bright, glittering lights of showbiz have dimmed a bit. And no doubt, since everyone everywhere has had their fill of ruminations, reminiscences and rememberings for our departed brethren I see no reason to continue the misery. Except to mention the passing of one of the greats of one of the smaller wings of the comedy stage: Fred Travalena.

True, he didn't have the sex appeal of Farah or the jazz hands/feet of Jacko. He wasn't anybody's Ed McMahon either. However, he was the only comedian, save Rich Little (still living believe it or not), who made a career off of celebrity impersonations. Certainly not the easiest path in the already treacherous world of stand-up comedy.

Most comedic "vocal" acts get sidelined for one reason or another. Vaughn Meader found a nation in mourning wasn't quite so eager for his "paakin tha caar in haavaad yaad" JFK routine after late November 1963. Michael Winslow never escaped being "that dude with the funny voices from the Police Academy movies." Once people grew tired of that series, somewhere between parts 2 and 3, he was doomed. Winslow did make a Sportscenter commercial a couple of years ago, however, as (you guessed it) "that dude with the funny voices from the Police Academy movies."

While I suppose ultimately it's better to be a has-been than to be a never-was, cases such as these sort of make me wonder. It must get old doing your act in some supermarket checkout line for the umpteenth time when all you wanted to do was buy some hot dogs. But Travalena made a career out of doing Bob Hope, Ronald Reagan, Johnny Carson and pretty much everyone that those three ever palled around with. I'm still not exactly sure how.

Certainly his skills helped tremendously, but I think he was more fortuitous in the era he performed in. Travalena made his name in the waning days of old Hollywood before we became saturated with the cult of celebrity. When the myth of infallible superstars with recognizable traits, characteristics and voices was still believed. Take Jack Nicholson for instance (please, yuk, yuk). He may be the go to impersonation for every hack under the sun but there's a reason for that. How many Brad Pitt impersonations have you seen during Pitt's 20 year career? Besides the one Pitt himself does, of course.

Though we're inundated by "celebrity" nowadays there's very few that rise beyond being a recognizable face for some fleeting moment. And even fewer that merit it. Does anyone honestly care what Megan Fox or whomever the babe o' the moment is thinks about much of anything. For that matter, would anyone recognize Ms. Fox if she didn't have a summer blockbuster (Transformers 7) bludgeoning theaters worldwide at this very minute?

The world Travalena made a career of no longer exists. Whether that's necessarily bad is for another time. The modern celebrity culture is so transparent, shallow and ultimately forgettable that celebs are already self-caricatures. There's scant need for anybody to make fun since Paris Hilton, et al do a good enough job of it themselves. How else would anybody remember them?

But as for Fred Travalena, his death is certainly worth more than the footnote mention it will most likely receive. He wasn't mean-spirited and one always got the impression (no pun intended) there was more than a little respect for the fellow at whom he was poking fun. That's a notion that's pretty antiquated these days, and it probably assures that edgy will never be used to describe Fred Travalena. Which is just as well because he wasn't. Nor can I claim to be a big fan. However, I can admit was an extremely mimic and helped people laugh for a little bit. Sometimes that's all the world wants. Or needs.

The affairs of state must take precedent over the affairs of state

I've lived here all my life. Accordingly, that I've thus far resisted the urge to put a bullet in my brain is perhaps no small victory but a tad beside the point right now. As with all small towns, one ends up knowing everyone else and sees the same faces day in/out. Maybe not every person everyday but close enough. Sort of like how the view for all but the lead dog in a pack never really changes. Sure it's a different rump from time to time. Some are larger, some smaller, but ultimately, it's still an ass. While that may be good enough for Six Mix-A-Lot, I suspect it gets a bit old out on the tundra.

(Note: I use this simile simply as an illustration and not as a broad characterization of my fellow denizens. They're all good peeps, of course. Or at least the ones who read this are. )

Surprising then to receive a friendly greeting, by name, on the way to the post office this morning from one I can't recall ever encountering. It's nice to be recognized, mind. But I always overanalyze these sort of situations.

Therefore, I gave the sort of half wave/acknowledgement/murmur one gives when one thinks, usually mistakenly, that one is being waved at from across the room. The kind of sign that can double as cover in case it was really the dashing debonair dude with the smoking jacket and pipe (Apparently, in my mind I hang out at the Playboy Mansion) and not the bespectacled wallflower dork that fab brunette was frantically waving too. "Hey...uh, that...uh, molding is indeed perfect for this room." Carpentry being a silent hobby of mine.

I don't consider myself famous nor am I particularly high profile. My position as head of the local "Hooray for our awesome hometown" do-gooder outfit necessitates the occasional appearance at supermarket ribbon cuttings and handshakes with bigwigs. Evidence of which usually turns up in our local organ which is read by hundreds of people.

Actually, that's a bit of a stretch. We've not had an actual supermarket open here for 30 years. Quite a few of the ribbon cuttings have been for places that sell food though. A couple of such establishments are actually still open; I like to tell myself the failures had nothing to do with me. Usually when I'm composing my annual letter to Santa Claus.

As for famous folks, in work-related situations I've met a few Atlanta Falcons and the occasional forgettable political candidate but no one all that noteworthy. Apparently, the bigwigs just don't have the time for us. Can't imagine why more candidates don't spend half a day getting here for the several thousand potential votes up for grabs. We just might swing the election in that candidates favor. I suspect we wouldn't, but there's always the possibility. I often include that wish in the aforementioned letters to Santa Claus.

I have been in the same room as our current governor. However, the closest I came to shaking his hand was breathing the same air. Had the gov's handlers realized whom he was in the presence of, I'm sure they would have arranged a photo op. And asked me to kindly step aside. I think the EPJ did get her picture snapped with him, however. It is currently in a place of some prestige, buried in her desk drawer next to some empty pens, stray staples and old packets of sweet n low. So much for all politics being local.