as i was face-stalking (what people my age do on facebook when they look at their 'friends' who they will never actually see again), i ran across the boy i had a crush on for five years of my childhood. as my usual m.o. as a kid, i had a few friends that were girls, but in class there were two boys that i hung out with all the time...and then i realized that i was in love with one of them. this changed the dynamic between us, as i was vaulted head-first into the awkward middle school feelings of female inadequacy in the face of the opposite sex. a lovely time.
childhood progressed, elementary school crush turned into daydreams of us getting married in a big church with lots of people around/coaching our children's soccer team/not having any dogs. normal stuff to think about when you're ten. there was a period in seventh grade that i wavered in my love for the boy-who-shall-remain-nameless, but for one more solid year my love remained.
and then i realized that i was a loser. i sucked at sports, and he was great at sports. oh well, can't win 'em all.
but at least i had enough balls to fess up to this right after graduation. you know, the part where you hug everyone even if you hate them? i went up to him, gave him a big hug, and said: "i just wanted to know that i had a huge crush on you from third to eighth grade. we were gonna get married. but don't worry, i'm not in love with you now." to which he said so plainly and enthusiastically: "REALLY?! i was in love with you too!"
that was all i needed. for some reason that was the perfect thing to say- obviously nothing ever would have come from that, but it's still nice to think about. i guess some sort of validation for those terrible middle school feelings. sometimes they just get away.
and damn, he got more attractive.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
an open letter to...
Dear Idaho Driver who ran me off the road in March 2008:
You van-ed me. You straight up van-ed me.
This is what you did to me: "Van-ed (v., past tense): to be inconvenienced on the road by a person in a minivan or larger van; this may include bodily psychological, or emotional harm often leading to feelings of rage and discomfort. Vanning most often occurs while you are in a hurry, or when those driving the minivan deem it necessary to assert themselves as imcompetent rulers of the road."
Like most of the driver's of minivans (i say most as not to offend), you decided it would be a perfect time to go five miles under the speed limit in the lefthand lane on Highway 395 on the way through the Tri-Cities. I was on your tail, yes: I was on your tail because of your apparent lack of knowledge of highway driving rules. The signs are everywhere, "Slower Traffic Keep to Right." You were the slower traffic, therefore you should be in the right hand lane. We were the only two cars on the road. Seems simple enough.
But no, driver-of-teal-Safari-minivan-with-Idaho-plates, you did not follow the rules. What was I supposed to do? Wait another five miles on your tail and hope that you will notice there was someone on your tail?...My outlook was looking grim to say the least. So I decided to take matters into my own hands and move into the righthand lane in order to speed around you. Chances were probable that you were not going to move into the righthand lane, so I made the decision and stuck with it. This decision, mind you, was made as my rage toward you as a minivan driver finally seeped to the surface and came out verbally as a couple of choice swear words. I wish you could've heard me.
Mostly though, I wish you could've seen me. It must've been too much to look in your rearview mirror, it must have been too much effort to turn your head to the right and look behind your shoulder to see if anyone was in the other lane. You must've been swatting a child, changing the radio station. Perhaps you were picking up Goldfish that were strewn about the interior of your car by an angered toddler.
You don't even know that you made me slam on my brakes, do a 360 on the road and end up thankfully in one piece in a ditch on the side of the highway. You were too busy with the above tasks. You just drove away, drove away in your VAN, leaving me with a busted car, a condescending police officer (there is no other kind) and a 124 dollar ticket for "Driving with my wheels off the roadway." You're swell.
Concisely put, it is this, terrible epitomizing van-driver: I don't wish you harm. I'm gald I'm alive, and I truly hope that you are happy being an ignorant and terrible driver. I hope nothing remotely close to my accident happens to you, because I'm not that type of person.
But, karma's a bitch.
Sincerely,
Sarah Weakley (proud Civic driver)
You van-ed me. You straight up van-ed me.
This is what you did to me: "Van-ed (v., past tense): to be inconvenienced on the road by a person in a minivan or larger van; this may include bodily psychological, or emotional harm often leading to feelings of rage and discomfort. Vanning most often occurs while you are in a hurry, or when those driving the minivan deem it necessary to assert themselves as imcompetent rulers of the road."
Like most of the driver's of minivans (i say most as not to offend), you decided it would be a perfect time to go five miles under the speed limit in the lefthand lane on Highway 395 on the way through the Tri-Cities. I was on your tail, yes: I was on your tail because of your apparent lack of knowledge of highway driving rules. The signs are everywhere, "Slower Traffic Keep to Right." You were the slower traffic, therefore you should be in the right hand lane. We were the only two cars on the road. Seems simple enough.
But no, driver-of-teal-Safari-minivan-with-Idaho-plates, you did not follow the rules. What was I supposed to do? Wait another five miles on your tail and hope that you will notice there was someone on your tail?...My outlook was looking grim to say the least. So I decided to take matters into my own hands and move into the righthand lane in order to speed around you. Chances were probable that you were not going to move into the righthand lane, so I made the decision and stuck with it. This decision, mind you, was made as my rage toward you as a minivan driver finally seeped to the surface and came out verbally as a couple of choice swear words. I wish you could've heard me.
Mostly though, I wish you could've seen me. It must've been too much to look in your rearview mirror, it must have been too much effort to turn your head to the right and look behind your shoulder to see if anyone was in the other lane. You must've been swatting a child, changing the radio station. Perhaps you were picking up Goldfish that were strewn about the interior of your car by an angered toddler.
You don't even know that you made me slam on my brakes, do a 360 on the road and end up thankfully in one piece in a ditch on the side of the highway. You were too busy with the above tasks. You just drove away, drove away in your VAN, leaving me with a busted car, a condescending police officer (there is no other kind) and a 124 dollar ticket for "Driving with my wheels off the roadway." You're swell.
Concisely put, it is this, terrible epitomizing van-driver: I don't wish you harm. I'm gald I'm alive, and I truly hope that you are happy being an ignorant and terrible driver. I hope nothing remotely close to my accident happens to you, because I'm not that type of person.
But, karma's a bitch.
Sincerely,
Sarah Weakley (proud Civic driver)
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
prepared
i am getting on a plane for south carolina in about three hours.
as mentioned in an earlier post somewhere around here, i have spent this summer not being in any one place for a long time. my mother likes to use the term "traipsing," mostly in a condescending way, to describe the way at which i have been moving about life recently. "traipsing" means (v.)- to walk aimlessly, with a storklike gait. i pray that when i walk i don't look like a stork, but this summer sometimes i have felt aimless. aimless mostly because i have been moving around so fast, gone every weekend that i am traveling across the country to a place i am nowhere near prepared for and i'm not really even fazed. amazing what traveling around mostly by yourself for a whole summer will do for you. it makes you tired.
and i don't honestly know what being "unprepared" for a trip is, but it mostly is mental. i'm very excited to go, but i haven't thought about all the great things that i'm going to get to see. all the amazing food i'll eat, all the Dolly Parton fake breasts i will discover (yes, i'm going to Dollywood). my physical being has just been moving so fast that i can't seem to remember what it means to be mentally prepared for something. but i guess that can be a good thing- no expectations and an open mind i think can lead to the best kind of journeys. just waiting, prepared enough but not overanticipatory (pretty sure that's not a word).
as for "traipsing," you can be sure i'll be checking out my walk in the mirror too. maybe the storklike gait is what my mother has been referring to all these years and has just been waiting for me to really look up the word.
maybe though, with all this traipsin and unpreparedness, i'll meet a cute Clemson boy. that would make my aunt Mary very pleased. i think i can be ready for that.
as mentioned in an earlier post somewhere around here, i have spent this summer not being in any one place for a long time. my mother likes to use the term "traipsing," mostly in a condescending way, to describe the way at which i have been moving about life recently. "traipsing" means (v.)- to walk aimlessly, with a storklike gait. i pray that when i walk i don't look like a stork, but this summer sometimes i have felt aimless. aimless mostly because i have been moving around so fast, gone every weekend that i am traveling across the country to a place i am nowhere near prepared for and i'm not really even fazed. amazing what traveling around mostly by yourself for a whole summer will do for you. it makes you tired.
and i don't honestly know what being "unprepared" for a trip is, but it mostly is mental. i'm very excited to go, but i haven't thought about all the great things that i'm going to get to see. all the amazing food i'll eat, all the Dolly Parton fake breasts i will discover (yes, i'm going to Dollywood). my physical being has just been moving so fast that i can't seem to remember what it means to be mentally prepared for something. but i guess that can be a good thing- no expectations and an open mind i think can lead to the best kind of journeys. just waiting, prepared enough but not overanticipatory (pretty sure that's not a word).
as for "traipsing," you can be sure i'll be checking out my walk in the mirror too. maybe the storklike gait is what my mother has been referring to all these years and has just been waiting for me to really look up the word.
maybe though, with all this traipsin and unpreparedness, i'll meet a cute Clemson boy. that would make my aunt Mary very pleased. i think i can be ready for that.
Monday, August 4, 2008
marriage- a list of sorts
moving into my new apartment, i now have a slight feeling as to the inevitable "combination of crap" that occurs for the newly married. except this time, i am marrying not one, not two, but three people's crap. the two people who lived there before andy and i moved in left most of their stuff behind, as they are only leaving for a year to head off to korea or something for some socialist thing. from here on out they will be referred to as the "socialists." because that's what they're under in andy's phone.
the good news is that the apartment is a sweet location. the bad news, i didn't realize quite how much crap the socialists left for us, and discovered it all last night as it is my job to make the space functional before andy moves in for real next weekend. it was a daunting task. so, in order to understand the severity of the issue, i will make a list entitled:
2 Socialists Who Left Behind...
- 1 trunk (old school style) filled with most of the spices and pots they left in their kitchen cupboards. most of the spices i will never use (i.e. rice wine vinegar), so i put it back in the trunk, on which the TV is now placed. the contents will never be seen again.
- 3 containers of garlic powder (found in the trunk)... because you might need to take one in your purse to a restaurant.
- 5 traffic signs stolen by one of the socialists in their high school years. if i was 17, this might be cool. andy likes them. they're going behind the couch.
- 1 clock about 2 feet in diameter. it's always 5:07.
-roughly 6 sets of four glasses in varying sizes and colors. the dude apparently "couldn't resist" buying sets of glassware, so we now can have a cocktail party for the whole english department. i have no clue what to do with them. i will also never drink out of them.
- NO EXAGGERATION. roughly 90 hangers. there are no words.
-20 half used legal pads. i opened up the drawers to the dresser they left for me and discovered two full drawers of legal pads, broken binders and filler paper. they obviously had lots of business meetings to attend to, or in my case they had about 20 theses to write. i could probably use them as wallpaper for the whole apartment.
- in another drawer, about 30 highlighters. odds are none of them work, but they are clearly meant for the legal pads. i'll have to start doing something very important soon.
-1 almost completely empty bag of cat food in a drawer in the bathroom. you all know my love for felines. (see "tolerate" if you are unaware.)
-2 containers full of white "stuff." one container has "Powdered Sugar?" scrawled across the top. my confidence in their food is waning at best.
-1 of the ugliest giant area rugs i've ever seen. circa 1985. possibly stolen from the set of The Cosby Show. the only place i can think to put it is in my room, but i'll have to write a disclaimer.
-2 boxes still unopened as of monday morning.
it's going to be a long day. good thing i live above a bar.
the good news is that the apartment is a sweet location. the bad news, i didn't realize quite how much crap the socialists left for us, and discovered it all last night as it is my job to make the space functional before andy moves in for real next weekend. it was a daunting task. so, in order to understand the severity of the issue, i will make a list entitled:
2 Socialists Who Left Behind...
- 1 trunk (old school style) filled with most of the spices and pots they left in their kitchen cupboards. most of the spices i will never use (i.e. rice wine vinegar), so i put it back in the trunk, on which the TV is now placed. the contents will never be seen again.
- 3 containers of garlic powder (found in the trunk)... because you might need to take one in your purse to a restaurant.
- 5 traffic signs stolen by one of the socialists in their high school years. if i was 17, this might be cool. andy likes them. they're going behind the couch.
- 1 clock about 2 feet in diameter. it's always 5:07.
-roughly 6 sets of four glasses in varying sizes and colors. the dude apparently "couldn't resist" buying sets of glassware, so we now can have a cocktail party for the whole english department. i have no clue what to do with them. i will also never drink out of them.
- NO EXAGGERATION. roughly 90 hangers. there are no words.
-20 half used legal pads. i opened up the drawers to the dresser they left for me and discovered two full drawers of legal pads, broken binders and filler paper. they obviously had lots of business meetings to attend to, or in my case they had about 20 theses to write. i could probably use them as wallpaper for the whole apartment.
- in another drawer, about 30 highlighters. odds are none of them work, but they are clearly meant for the legal pads. i'll have to start doing something very important soon.
-1 almost completely empty bag of cat food in a drawer in the bathroom. you all know my love for felines. (see "tolerate" if you are unaware.)
-2 containers full of white "stuff." one container has "Powdered Sugar?" scrawled across the top. my confidence in their food is waning at best.
-1 of the ugliest giant area rugs i've ever seen. circa 1985. possibly stolen from the set of The Cosby Show. the only place i can think to put it is in my room, but i'll have to write a disclaimer.
-2 boxes still unopened as of monday morning.
it's going to be a long day. good thing i live above a bar.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
fan, not ashamed
Sometimes I've found in the academic writing world there seems to be one thing missing- sports. I have rarely had a conversation with friends who are writing majors about sports, save my friend who runs a zillion miles a day. But even then, we only talk about track and field. They don't start a conversation about the amazing game on television the night before, the steroids scandal with that tool Roger Clemens, they don't even talk about the possibility of Michael Phelps breaking Mark Spitz's record for number of golds won at a single Olympics. It's as if sometimes, I should be thinking about more cerebral things than sports- that sports are only meant for overweight middle aged men and frat boys.
But I want to talk about sports. I want to have a beer and talk about the Celtics coming back from 24 down in Game 4 to eventually kick the crap out of Kobe, and I want to talk about it while still at the same time being "academic" and "smart". I think it's possible to talk about with others, but I just miss having someone around like my Dad who always knows what's going on the world of sports. And even though he might not catch a game, or even like to watch certain sports (i.e. tennis, which he deems merely a 'recreational event'), he still knows what's going on. Same with me. I like to keep myself updated on just about everything in the sports world, even baseball (sooooo boring). It's a problem. But also comforting.
I love sports. I am a sports fan.
There.
When I was growing up, my dream was to be a sportscaster for ESPN. I'd be the girl on the side of the field talking to Brett Favre before he walked into the tunnel at halftime of the Super Bowl, I would be the one holding the microphone while being soaked with champagne in the locker room of the Chicago Bulls after they won their 15th Championship (bear in mind when I was a kid), and I would finally get to hit balls with Pete Sampras (14 singles Championships...how the hell do you do that?). Unfortunately, I am neither a former amazing athlete that got a job at ESPN after my career is over, nor am I a busty blond. So I'm out. Also, I don't really have much affinity for Com majors. That dream eventually had to fall by the wayside.
I have sports heroes, even though I suck at sports. I care when I see a terrible injury on the field, and I cry when a see a touching montage when a sports figures career has finally come to a close. I was watching the ESPY awards on Sunday and I got misty three times. I don't think that is normal. I have favorite sports movie moments, my most favorite being the end of Rudy- you can't help but cry like a baby during that- and I know odd facts and figures about athletes that are long gone. I don't particularly know why I care. I just do.
Again, I am a sports fan. Maybe it's because of my father, but I'm not sure. Maybe it's because I like to memorize facts. I think it might just be because I love my emotions going up and down like all good sports fans do while waiting for the underdog to finally beat the giant (Nadal-Federer Wimbledon 08). Or watching the statements that can be made on the largest of stages (Tommie Smith-John Carlos raising the gloved fist on the 1968 Olympic podium). I don't know why I got to love sports the way I do, I just do. So my husband better be ready to attend football games, buy me tickets to the U.S. Open, and get his ass kicked in Trivial Pursuit. That might be asking too much, but that would be perfect. He better be ready for me to cry during sports movies.
And yes, I will be buying cable so I can watch the Olympics. There's nothing my brother can do about it.
But I want to talk about sports. I want to have a beer and talk about the Celtics coming back from 24 down in Game 4 to eventually kick the crap out of Kobe, and I want to talk about it while still at the same time being "academic" and "smart". I think it's possible to talk about with others, but I just miss having someone around like my Dad who always knows what's going on the world of sports. And even though he might not catch a game, or even like to watch certain sports (i.e. tennis, which he deems merely a 'recreational event'), he still knows what's going on. Same with me. I like to keep myself updated on just about everything in the sports world, even baseball (sooooo boring). It's a problem. But also comforting.
I love sports. I am a sports fan.
There.
When I was growing up, my dream was to be a sportscaster for ESPN. I'd be the girl on the side of the field talking to Brett Favre before he walked into the tunnel at halftime of the Super Bowl, I would be the one holding the microphone while being soaked with champagne in the locker room of the Chicago Bulls after they won their 15th Championship (bear in mind when I was a kid), and I would finally get to hit balls with Pete Sampras (14 singles Championships...how the hell do you do that?). Unfortunately, I am neither a former amazing athlete that got a job at ESPN after my career is over, nor am I a busty blond. So I'm out. Also, I don't really have much affinity for Com majors. That dream eventually had to fall by the wayside.
I have sports heroes, even though I suck at sports. I care when I see a terrible injury on the field, and I cry when a see a touching montage when a sports figures career has finally come to a close. I was watching the ESPY awards on Sunday and I got misty three times. I don't think that is normal. I have favorite sports movie moments, my most favorite being the end of Rudy- you can't help but cry like a baby during that- and I know odd facts and figures about athletes that are long gone. I don't particularly know why I care. I just do.
Again, I am a sports fan. Maybe it's because of my father, but I'm not sure. Maybe it's because I like to memorize facts. I think it might just be because I love my emotions going up and down like all good sports fans do while waiting for the underdog to finally beat the giant (Nadal-Federer Wimbledon 08). Or watching the statements that can be made on the largest of stages (Tommie Smith-John Carlos raising the gloved fist on the 1968 Olympic podium). I don't know why I got to love sports the way I do, I just do. So my husband better be ready to attend football games, buy me tickets to the U.S. Open, and get his ass kicked in Trivial Pursuit. That might be asking too much, but that would be perfect. He better be ready for me to cry during sports movies.
And yes, I will be buying cable so I can watch the Olympics. There's nothing my brother can do about it.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
unearthed opinions
kay ryan is the new poet laureate, i read about her today in the times and liked her poems. so much so that i printed out one and pasted it on my desk at work. i actually got misty a little after finishing one.
that is not what this is about.
what this is about is my long dormant opinion that she and i both share, thus i can feel validated in my opinion. she's the poet laureate, after all.
i hate workshops. she also hates workshops. i hate the fact that "workshopping" is now an acceptable verb nowadays in writing classes. it's not a verb to me. i will now tell you why i believe this, and am beginning with a typical workshopping/peer review mindset:
walking into the class. i know that most people (slackers, not obsessive types like me, etc.) have not prepared a fully completed piece of their writing at all. they probably believe that this is not a time they need to have anything done, because they assume that others will want to rip apart their work and give them an entirely new idea to work with. mostly they just want help with grammar mistakes. their stuff is usually unfinished, which pisses me off- i managed my time well enough to get something decent written down, a complete piece so that you all can read it and give me advice that i won't use. but NOOOOO, they clearly don't understand that this was an assignment. so i'm angry there, and my general distaste for the class session only declines when i have to read an 8 page story about someone's completely forgettable high school swimming career. please, if someone could stab me in the eye with a pen that'd be great.
i hate workshops because the only opinion i really take into account much is the professor's. i have respect for him or her, and i will listen to them. they matter to me because they're smarter than me. much smarter than me. (sometimes i don't listen). so, i don't understand why i have to listen to our unremarkable high school swimmer-friend about how to structure my piece of writing. i am not going to pander to her needs, and i don't think i have to. there are people's opinions i care about, and i will work with those people in my own time. if i want.
i also don't enjoy reading other people's crap. i know they don't care as much as me and that makes me feel ripped off. i could've been writing my own stuff, but now i have to come up with a nice way to say on the back of their paper, "you should probably be a math major...this whole writing thing isn't your cup of tea." that takes a lot of effort. i usually have a smiley face drawn somewhere instead and say something like, "you're on the right track...keep going!" (must add exclamation point in order to make them believe my excitement about their crap).
if i do eventually get to the point of letting other people read my writing, i know that it doesn't suck. it might not be the best in the world, but i know that it's not terrible either. so i take people's criticism with a grain of salt. by the time someone reads my work i also care about it a lot, and am pretty firm in my ways. i'm not going to change my feelings just because someone doesn't like it. oh well, screw them.
mostly though, writing is too personal. i'm too invested to have someone i don't know, don't care about, or don't have respect for give me advice i'll actually use. writing is something to be worked out in your head first: sentences cried over, quotes chosen specifically, words placed and re-placed based on the way they rolled off your tongue. and if it doesn't work out, it's just me i have to worry about, not a grade. your writing should make you want to try something else, learn something new for yourself, not someone else. and when i'm finally done with at least a first draft, i'll let someone read it. until then, though, i'll stay in my own workshop and hide for a little while.
kay ryan was totally right: "It doesn't really matter if their opinions are respectable. I just think the writer has given up way too much inside. Let's not share. Really. Go off in your own direction way too far, get lost, test the metal of your work in your own acids. These are experiments you can perform down in that old kind of workshop where Dad used to hide out from far too many other people's claims on him."
so no, i won't like to workshop with you. you might like it, it might help you- go nuts. but me, i'll hang out here and get lost until i appear with something i like.
that is not what this is about.
what this is about is my long dormant opinion that she and i both share, thus i can feel validated in my opinion. she's the poet laureate, after all.
i hate workshops. she also hates workshops. i hate the fact that "workshopping" is now an acceptable verb nowadays in writing classes. it's not a verb to me. i will now tell you why i believe this, and am beginning with a typical workshopping/peer review mindset:
walking into the class. i know that most people (slackers, not obsessive types like me, etc.) have not prepared a fully completed piece of their writing at all. they probably believe that this is not a time they need to have anything done, because they assume that others will want to rip apart their work and give them an entirely new idea to work with. mostly they just want help with grammar mistakes. their stuff is usually unfinished, which pisses me off- i managed my time well enough to get something decent written down, a complete piece so that you all can read it and give me advice that i won't use. but NOOOOO, they clearly don't understand that this was an assignment. so i'm angry there, and my general distaste for the class session only declines when i have to read an 8 page story about someone's completely forgettable high school swimming career. please, if someone could stab me in the eye with a pen that'd be great.
i hate workshops because the only opinion i really take into account much is the professor's. i have respect for him or her, and i will listen to them. they matter to me because they're smarter than me. much smarter than me. (sometimes i don't listen). so, i don't understand why i have to listen to our unremarkable high school swimmer-friend about how to structure my piece of writing. i am not going to pander to her needs, and i don't think i have to. there are people's opinions i care about, and i will work with those people in my own time. if i want.
i also don't enjoy reading other people's crap. i know they don't care as much as me and that makes me feel ripped off. i could've been writing my own stuff, but now i have to come up with a nice way to say on the back of their paper, "you should probably be a math major...this whole writing thing isn't your cup of tea." that takes a lot of effort. i usually have a smiley face drawn somewhere instead and say something like, "you're on the right track...keep going!" (must add exclamation point in order to make them believe my excitement about their crap).
if i do eventually get to the point of letting other people read my writing, i know that it doesn't suck. it might not be the best in the world, but i know that it's not terrible either. so i take people's criticism with a grain of salt. by the time someone reads my work i also care about it a lot, and am pretty firm in my ways. i'm not going to change my feelings just because someone doesn't like it. oh well, screw them.
mostly though, writing is too personal. i'm too invested to have someone i don't know, don't care about, or don't have respect for give me advice i'll actually use. writing is something to be worked out in your head first: sentences cried over, quotes chosen specifically, words placed and re-placed based on the way they rolled off your tongue. and if it doesn't work out, it's just me i have to worry about, not a grade. your writing should make you want to try something else, learn something new for yourself, not someone else. and when i'm finally done with at least a first draft, i'll let someone read it. until then, though, i'll stay in my own workshop and hide for a little while.
kay ryan was totally right: "It doesn't really matter if their opinions are respectable. I just think the writer has given up way too much inside. Let's not share. Really. Go off in your own direction way too far, get lost, test the metal of your work in your own acids. These are experiments you can perform down in that old kind of workshop where Dad used to hide out from far too many other people's claims on him."
so no, i won't like to workshop with you. you might like it, it might help you- go nuts. but me, i'll hang out here and get lost until i appear with something i like.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
phantom
some of you have been in my car, affectionately and bad-assly named "Blue Steel". he's great. pretty reliable, some dents here and there with stories attached. most of those dents, especially one on the roof, are attributed to joe undem, a childhood friend of my brother and i. quite a large boy, the guy stood 6'3" 260 at the age of 14 and he decided it would be a great idea to relax on top of the car. poor thing, the car's roof didn't stand a chance- now it's a little concave.
but i digress.
my father used to drive this car. in fact, every time the car comes up in conversation now he has to reply with, "that's a great car" or "man i wish i could drive that car again." sucka.
anywho, because this was my father's car there wasn't a whole lot of music blaring from it in its past. the guy likes music, that's no lie, but he's not the one who opens all the windows and sings harmonies at the top of his lungs on the freeway. no no. instead, the volume on his stereo never went above levels three or four and the cd player never played burned cds. he never needed them, i suppose. because of that, i think the soul of the car got stuck on that volume level. i didn't realize this until i inherited the car.
not only is the seat worn down like an old couch due to my father's girth, the soul of the car is a phantom. sometimes the volume on the radio would go up, sometimes it would go down, and most of the time it took about 15 minutes to get the volume to the highest possible. whenever i got it to level 4 i would try as i might to keep it there. i wouldn't dare brush my arm past the knob, wouldn't think about turning it down, and NEVER, NEVER would i turn it off. if i did, i would have to make sure that the knob went straight back, or else the next time i turned it on there would be nothing. this turned into a needless stressor in my life, and i hated having to explain to newbies to my car that no, you can't change the volume, and no, you can't play burned cds. terrible.
the worst part is when someone would come into the car and try turn the stereo down i would stop everything and yell NO!!!!!! -now that's just not the way to treat a guest.
today i got a new car stereo. and even though it wasn't lil' wayne, i blasted my music nonetheless. no dog and pony show this time. just regular old white-kid john mayer.
ahhh......
but i digress.
my father used to drive this car. in fact, every time the car comes up in conversation now he has to reply with, "that's a great car" or "man i wish i could drive that car again." sucka.
anywho, because this was my father's car there wasn't a whole lot of music blaring from it in its past. the guy likes music, that's no lie, but he's not the one who opens all the windows and sings harmonies at the top of his lungs on the freeway. no no. instead, the volume on his stereo never went above levels three or four and the cd player never played burned cds. he never needed them, i suppose. because of that, i think the soul of the car got stuck on that volume level. i didn't realize this until i inherited the car.
not only is the seat worn down like an old couch due to my father's girth, the soul of the car is a phantom. sometimes the volume on the radio would go up, sometimes it would go down, and most of the time it took about 15 minutes to get the volume to the highest possible. whenever i got it to level 4 i would try as i might to keep it there. i wouldn't dare brush my arm past the knob, wouldn't think about turning it down, and NEVER, NEVER would i turn it off. if i did, i would have to make sure that the knob went straight back, or else the next time i turned it on there would be nothing. this turned into a needless stressor in my life, and i hated having to explain to newbies to my car that no, you can't change the volume, and no, you can't play burned cds. terrible.
the worst part is when someone would come into the car and try turn the stereo down i would stop everything and yell NO!!!!!! -now that's just not the way to treat a guest.
today i got a new car stereo. and even though it wasn't lil' wayne, i blasted my music nonetheless. no dog and pony show this time. just regular old white-kid john mayer.
ahhh......
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