Evening Approaches
I managed to lock my keys in my car when I parked it this morning in my building parking slot. Access and a second set of keys: $94.50. The guy threw in the second set of keys. The backup key is now squirreled away in my wallet. The next time, and I have no doubt there will be a next time, I'll have it. This marks the fourth time I've called this particular company. You know you're over the top when they send you a card every Christmas.
Yes, I know I shouldn't have had those five beers last night and I probably shouldn't have accepted that shot of Johnny Walker Red at the Fat Lady as we were leaving, but, you know, what the hell? Male bonding and all that. Today I drove to the pet shop and picked up some cat food and kitty litter (hence the key left in the car) and I took a nap. That was it. That was enough. My head, you will be happy to know, is clearer. Tomorrow I will test drive the Honda, yes I will, and then I will talk about not buying it here until summer. Or I'll buy it.
Rut! Rut! We're in a rut! I can feel it! I can taste it! I cannot stand it!
Be calm, self is under control. I've chained the bastard in the closet. I've complained to his people, but they just smile and never answer.
Now. The car. I've read reviews. Not much out there. It was designed for 20 year old guys into extreme sports (read: designed for 20 year old guys who fantasize they're into extreme sports), who need to carry lots of scuba gear and skate board equipment, who want to sleep on the special push down seats, if necessary, and listen to CD's and mpegs at high volume. I think Honda has miscalculated the market. There are those older than 20 who will lust after this car, the not so expensive all purpose Volkswagen mini-bus of the new Millenium. Scuba gear? How about camera gear? Strobe lights? Guys who talk about strobe lights? The interior is built so you can hose it out without damage, all that beach sand and vomit. So what if I don't hose it out? So what if there's no beach sand (it gets into the cameras)? What's the problem?
Johnny Walker Red, Wild Turkey 101, the conceits of my twenties and thirties. My forties were an introduction to hellaciously priced wines with exotic French monikers, and those were good, especially the Champagnes and Clarets, but in these declining years - turning sixty, as it looks I must - I'll go to Guinness. My single evening Guinness, a hurried second if I hear word of approaching nefarious gasses, Honda ready, engine running. But I digress. I digress as the evening approaches.
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