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Thursday, June 26, 2003

“No point in going back to the car, he told himself.”
-J.G. Ballard, Concrete Island.


talking to an old friend on that crazy electronic mail and it reminded me of driving around. all through high school that’s all i did. drive around. i’m talking hours and hours and hours and hours. my friend Dan had this huge yellow car (what the fuck car WAS that??) that we lived in. here’s my cars:

first i shared an '81 Buick Skylark with my brother. it had no exhaust so it sounded like the end of the world and it was full of fumes and old Taco Bell wrappers (my brother lived on that shit). it also had this Frankenstein equalizer that hung down and bounced around your knees when you drove. it was mostly his car but sometimes i got to use it. and when i did.....i drove around our small town, and the two small town right next to ours. the only action-packed thing that ever happened was once i bet my friend steve that i could drink 6 shot of something in a certain amount of time and he gave me these big double shots, and, for some reason, i ate a green apple (there were on the table at the party) between each one. then i decided to drive this one girl home (jenny something). when the trip is over a.) the girl is crying, b.) there are corn husks jammed in the grill and under the wheel wells and sticking in and around the doors and c.) my pants are covered in mud up to my knees. apparently (this is all explained to me later) i had to piss and i saw a barn in the distance. i pointed towards it and DOINK poked this girl in the eye accidentally. she’s all mad and bleary eyed while i tear through this corn field to get to that barn. i jump out, sink in the mud, urinate, then tear another trail back to the road. the next day was thanksgiving and there were many question from my mom. she didn’t tell my dad though (and was able to punish my friend steve for his part-a story for another time) and at thanksgiving dinner, my uncle was like “davey! why you just eating celery!”

next was a little '85 Pontiac Fiero. my friend Dan would make fun of me for washing and waxing that little matchbox car every day. he said i was the poor man’s Magnum PI. little red car with speakers in the seats. it was fast (since it weighed about as much as a roller skate) but it was apparently made out of Legos. i smashed it into a telephone pole as i raced to pick up my girlfriend for school. it looked like a hamburger after someone punched it. the sunroof ended up like 50 yard down the road. the best part was all the buses passed by it on the way to school and word go around about the smashed car and people thought i was dead. i had a couple stitches in my hand from glass but i milked that shit like i’d crawled from a fiery wreck in a thunderstorm. the girlfriend was all crying at my locker when i got to school (i obviously could have stayed home a while but i just HAD to get there that same day to bask in the attention) and i faked a groan when she grabbed my bandaged hand. you’d have thought they just reattached it at the wrist. . .

(continued above)

::: david - 3:11 PM [+] :::
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