Like many children from the Northeast, my parents took us to Walt Disney World for vacation. At the beginning of the trip, everyone was full of fun and laughter - even if we left at three in the morning. The promise of sunny skies, sweet smells and giant, white-gloved rodents was enough to turn an adolescent's stomach into cotton candy. Being awake at that time of night (or day, depending on your collective unconscious) is surreal. Gas station lights look like oases, the navy firmament of the sky fissures and feathers and the road is fairly traffic-free. It leaves you wondering, as you pass the man in the brown Cordoba, with its rich Corinthian leather, "what in the hell is this guy doing on the road at this hour?" Is he going to work super early to sink his teeth into the ass of the American Dream or is he returning home from an all-night bender and practicing his excuses to the wife who fell asleep on the couch waiting for his untrustworthy backside to try to sneak past her - shoes in hand? I knew one thing for certain, though. He wasn't headed to Walt Disney World, like us.
When morning finally blessed us with its sun-drenched glory and we were full of coffee, donuts and pixie stix, we would inevitably start into the traveling games, like I Spy, the Alphabet Game and License Plate Poker. Don't even pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You probably played License Plate Poker on your way home from work today. Eventually, boredom and ennui settle in like a rude uncle and the ride turns into a waiting game of "Are we there yet?" as Dad puts the steering wheel into a death grip and grits his teeth until they crack. That's when it hits...
"Did you see that? That car is from North Dakota!"
All heads slam to the same side window, temporarily listing the car onto two wheels. Even Dad gives a quick glance. The car starts buzzing with new life and someone (usually me) suggests we start keeping track of all the different license plates we see. We'd see all the plates from Delaware to Florida, but there were the other more common ones we would see regularly, like New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, D.C., New York and even Quebec, which seems to collectively vacation at the Jersey Shore. Once, we saw an Alaska license plate and the resulting roar about made Dad drive into a ditch. To this day, I still have a bit of a license plate fetish.
In Delaware, if you have a low-number license plate number, you wear it like a badge of honor. Some people convert these plates to black and white ceramic replicas as a status symbol. They are all the rage, and I'm not making up this next part: people pay tens of thousands of dollars for the right to have a low-number license plate. Did you hear me? TENS OF THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS! Conspicuous consumption is alive and well in The First State.
Ah, there's the other shoe falling. Delaware is The First State, and proudly announces that proclamation on the back of every car registered here. New Jersey touts itself as The Garden State, though many might proclaim it the "Which Exit?" state. Pennsylvania is the Keystone State and used to offer "You've Got a Friend in Pennsylvania." I hope I get a choice of whom to choose. If you have enough people sign up, you can have your group or alma mater on your plate. I suppose it's only a matter of time when we see people's personal MySpace page links, cell phone numbers and whether they sleep in the nude listed. I know one thing, there will be a lot of tailgating and rear-end collisions in the future if that last scenario comes to fruition. I'll end up in the Tailgating Hall of Fame and my car paint will be on the back of every Jetta in the state.
"But what about vanity plates?" you may ask. I'm getting to that. Calm down already. Usually, when you see a vanity plate, you would roll your eyes and yell out the window as you drove past, "Have a nice day, Miss Self-Absorbed!" before being passed on the right by a guy who looks like that wind-swept dude in the Maxell advertisement who is sunk deep into his chair listening to his stereo and steadying his wine glass. As he zips by, you can see he has something cheeky like "STOLEN" on his plate. Grudgingly, you mutter to yourself, "ok, that one was good." Then you would rattle off in your mind different letter/number combinations if you were to get one for yourself. A word of warning first. Many people put their occupations on their plates. These people should be locked away, but, if you insist on following suit, make sure you're not a therapist because "THRAPST" can very easily be misinterpreted as "The Rapist" and then you're in a world of hurt if your car breaks down in the wrong neighborhood.
We live in a world of efficiency. Some of those efficiencies come at a cost. Vowels are now an endangered species as some knuckleheads (teens are excluded because, frankly, they don't know any better) go for the cnsnnt nly spelling in ALL phases of their desperately-trying-to-be-hip lives. I once saw a plate that said IH8TRSTS. It was a California plate, so they had eight characters. It took me a while to figure out it meant "I hate tourists." I think we're all guilty of this. How many times have you seen one of these license plate mash-ups and spent the better part of your commute trying to figure out what the hell it meant?
I guess these days a license plate isn't just some rectangular wafer of cheap metal letting Mr. PO-liceman know you spent the better part of a miserable morning in line at the DMV to prove your car is legally registered. Nowadays, it's a way to tell the world you support the local wildlife, you're the proud member of a fraternity that's now on double-secret probation and you know how to spell like a teenager. Enjoy them now because we're probably not far away from them being flat screen images with advertisements from Stub Hub, ESPN scoreboards and toothy infomercials from Tony Robbins. It'll be the birth of a whole new game.
And the death of License Plate Poker.
Thanks to my friends Kim Martucci and Andi Buckman for this topic!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
The Fling
This is the ultimate in Jazz Writing. Normally, when I sit down to write, I at least have a topic in my head. I don't necessarily flesh it out because I prefer everything to flow organically. I'll have a thought, sit down, type like a mad man and before you know it, you're sitting there reading it, wondering, "Where does he come up with this crap?"
To tell you the truth, I have no idea where it comes from. I have no idea what the next sentence will be, where it is going or how it will end. It just does. When the story picks up steam, I do the sensible thing and get the hell out of the way. From there, the story basically writes itself and I just sit back, like the rest of you, and shake my head incredulously at what spews out.
I was watching an episode of the best show to ever hit network television, Northern Exposure, about 17-18 years ago. In this particular episode, Chris Stevens, the felon-cum-philosophical disc jockey, was looking to fling a cow using a medieval trebuchet. If you don't know what a trebuchet is, it's basically a catapult, with a counter-weight that provides locomotion and increases velocity (all you trebuchet fans please calm down, you know that's the basic gist of it and it's something my readers understand). Chris abandons the cow for a piano after Ed tells him it was done before in a Monty Python movie. When asked why he was going to fling a cow, he said it was "to create a pure moment."
I really didn't understand what he meant. Philosophically, I understood, but from an artistic point of view, I wasn't fully developed to appreciate it. For me, art had always been eternal, something to walk away from and say, "Yeah, I painted that," or "Do you like that vase? Made it myself." I never really put any stock into transient art, the art of the moment. Here right now and gone in an instant. There is no proof remaining. Well, let me amend that, there may be physical proof, like the dead cow or the ruptured piano, but, that's not the piece of art. Let me take it a step further: a body in the casket no longer remains that person. It's an empty vessel that carried a living person. The true person transcended that body. He/She was a soul, a spirit, a being cased in hair-covered meat. Change the exterior of a person and the same person remains inside. It's like that with transient art. As Chris Stevens said, "It's not the thing you fling, it's the fling itself." Damn straight.
It took me a while to really grasp what he was saying. Oh, I understood it, from a spectator's standpoint, but from an artist's standpoint, I was a drooling idiot. I eventually came to understand the value of creating, the old cliche of "It's not the destination; it's the journey." It's what led me to where I am today, from a creative platform.
Say what you will. I may not be a great writer - hell, I might not even be good enough to be a poor writer - but, the finished products of mine you read are the shattered pianos of my efforts. Truth be told, I really don't care how these stories turn out. Oh, I appreciate the comments others make when they are being sincere, but if reading these stories are those pianos, the process of writing is the fling for me. I'm along for the ride, just like you. I never go back and edit anything. Once it hits the page, it's done. If someone else wants to edit them, be my guest, but I've already moved on to something else. Revisiting a moment in your mind is great when living vicariously through yourself. How many times have you reminisced about a family vacation, laughing with friends or the first time you fell in love? Chances are, you might be doing that at this very moment. That's good; there's nothing wrong with that. It cleanses the soul. However, I cannot revisit the same pure moments I create for myself. All I can do is surge forth and create more, and it's incredibly worthwhile because pure moments are in an endless supply. There is no blueprint, nothing needs to be arranged, there is no right or wrong. All you have to do is feel and express through those feelings.
I've often said I'm an artist without an art. I can't draw worth crap, can't sculpt, can't paint, can't play a musical instrument...hell, I can barely feed and clothe myself. Yet, when I sit down to write, I feel a rush of expression and a giddiness one feels like when you still believed in Santa Claus and Christmas was just a few weeks away. I never really felt at home with people who don't appreciate the daily esoterics (probably not a word, but you know what I mean) of life, how ironies flutter by like butterflies and moments appear before you, however fleeting, that you can't share with anyone else because no one was in your shoes and experienced them like you did. Too many people walk this planet like stimulus/response zombies and the nuances of the incredible nature of life bounce off them like ping pong balls. They miss the ecstasy of being a sponge, absorbing the subtleties that nine out of ten people completely miss. We are mechanical people, in a mechanical age, product-hoarding automatons desperate to remain trendy. It's sad, and sadly, it's not going away.
I owed it to myself to offer something back to this world, no matter how inconsequential. Sure, my writing is basically for my own satisfaction, but others have told me how they enjoyed what I tossed out there, and that's ok, too. It's made me a better person for being able to squeeze that sponge and release those butterflies when I write, and in that, I feel like I am giving something back to this world, if even in my own little way, regardless if anyone reads it or not. Too many people ask "Why?" and not enough people just accept. Everyone seems to be afraid and they care too much what total strangers think and box themselves in. They don't really express themselves; they don't think they have a piano to fling. Paint a picture, write a story, sculpt something, just DO something to express yourself, no matter how poorly you may perceive the end result. THERE is your piano. Fling the hell out of it. It's this creative drive that makes us feel alive - it makes us human.
Don't be a passenger, be a driver, because, in the end, you don't want to be old and regretful of the things you should have done. When the atoms and molecules of this world came together, they created you as a human, not a rock, not a tree, not the crusty residue around the top of the ketchup bottle at a family picnic. As a human, you have an obligation to act on your humanity. Be alive! It's so easy to be self-defeating and make excuses that you are too tired, have no time or are afraid of what others may think or say. Is that really living? Is that really being human? In the words of Peggy Lee, is that all there is? There is not a single one of you out there who doesn't have something to give of themselves. Don't worry if no one sees or reads it, as long as you FEEL it. Dare to be human! Because, in the end, you are not the face in the mirror and you will not be that body in the casket; you are the light you brought to yourself and to others.
My name is Kevin, and I wrote this.
Fling away.
To tell you the truth, I have no idea where it comes from. I have no idea what the next sentence will be, where it is going or how it will end. It just does. When the story picks up steam, I do the sensible thing and get the hell out of the way. From there, the story basically writes itself and I just sit back, like the rest of you, and shake my head incredulously at what spews out.
I was watching an episode of the best show to ever hit network television, Northern Exposure, about 17-18 years ago. In this particular episode, Chris Stevens, the felon-cum-philosophical disc jockey, was looking to fling a cow using a medieval trebuchet. If you don't know what a trebuchet is, it's basically a catapult, with a counter-weight that provides locomotion and increases velocity (all you trebuchet fans please calm down, you know that's the basic gist of it and it's something my readers understand). Chris abandons the cow for a piano after Ed tells him it was done before in a Monty Python movie. When asked why he was going to fling a cow, he said it was "to create a pure moment."
I really didn't understand what he meant. Philosophically, I understood, but from an artistic point of view, I wasn't fully developed to appreciate it. For me, art had always been eternal, something to walk away from and say, "Yeah, I painted that," or "Do you like that vase? Made it myself." I never really put any stock into transient art, the art of the moment. Here right now and gone in an instant. There is no proof remaining. Well, let me amend that, there may be physical proof, like the dead cow or the ruptured piano, but, that's not the piece of art. Let me take it a step further: a body in the casket no longer remains that person. It's an empty vessel that carried a living person. The true person transcended that body. He/She was a soul, a spirit, a being cased in hair-covered meat. Change the exterior of a person and the same person remains inside. It's like that with transient art. As Chris Stevens said, "It's not the thing you fling, it's the fling itself." Damn straight.
It took me a while to really grasp what he was saying. Oh, I understood it, from a spectator's standpoint, but from an artist's standpoint, I was a drooling idiot. I eventually came to understand the value of creating, the old cliche of "It's not the destination; it's the journey." It's what led me to where I am today, from a creative platform.
Say what you will. I may not be a great writer - hell, I might not even be good enough to be a poor writer - but, the finished products of mine you read are the shattered pianos of my efforts. Truth be told, I really don't care how these stories turn out. Oh, I appreciate the comments others make when they are being sincere, but if reading these stories are those pianos, the process of writing is the fling for me. I'm along for the ride, just like you. I never go back and edit anything. Once it hits the page, it's done. If someone else wants to edit them, be my guest, but I've already moved on to something else. Revisiting a moment in your mind is great when living vicariously through yourself. How many times have you reminisced about a family vacation, laughing with friends or the first time you fell in love? Chances are, you might be doing that at this very moment. That's good; there's nothing wrong with that. It cleanses the soul. However, I cannot revisit the same pure moments I create for myself. All I can do is surge forth and create more, and it's incredibly worthwhile because pure moments are in an endless supply. There is no blueprint, nothing needs to be arranged, there is no right or wrong. All you have to do is feel and express through those feelings.
I've often said I'm an artist without an art. I can't draw worth crap, can't sculpt, can't paint, can't play a musical instrument...hell, I can barely feed and clothe myself. Yet, when I sit down to write, I feel a rush of expression and a giddiness one feels like when you still believed in Santa Claus and Christmas was just a few weeks away. I never really felt at home with people who don't appreciate the daily esoterics (probably not a word, but you know what I mean) of life, how ironies flutter by like butterflies and moments appear before you, however fleeting, that you can't share with anyone else because no one was in your shoes and experienced them like you did. Too many people walk this planet like stimulus/response zombies and the nuances of the incredible nature of life bounce off them like ping pong balls. They miss the ecstasy of being a sponge, absorbing the subtleties that nine out of ten people completely miss. We are mechanical people, in a mechanical age, product-hoarding automatons desperate to remain trendy. It's sad, and sadly, it's not going away.
I owed it to myself to offer something back to this world, no matter how inconsequential. Sure, my writing is basically for my own satisfaction, but others have told me how they enjoyed what I tossed out there, and that's ok, too. It's made me a better person for being able to squeeze that sponge and release those butterflies when I write, and in that, I feel like I am giving something back to this world, if even in my own little way, regardless if anyone reads it or not. Too many people ask "Why?" and not enough people just accept. Everyone seems to be afraid and they care too much what total strangers think and box themselves in. They don't really express themselves; they don't think they have a piano to fling. Paint a picture, write a story, sculpt something, just DO something to express yourself, no matter how poorly you may perceive the end result. THERE is your piano. Fling the hell out of it. It's this creative drive that makes us feel alive - it makes us human.
Don't be a passenger, be a driver, because, in the end, you don't want to be old and regretful of the things you should have done. When the atoms and molecules of this world came together, they created you as a human, not a rock, not a tree, not the crusty residue around the top of the ketchup bottle at a family picnic. As a human, you have an obligation to act on your humanity. Be alive! It's so easy to be self-defeating and make excuses that you are too tired, have no time or are afraid of what others may think or say. Is that really living? Is that really being human? In the words of Peggy Lee, is that all there is? There is not a single one of you out there who doesn't have something to give of themselves. Don't worry if no one sees or reads it, as long as you FEEL it. Dare to be human! Because, in the end, you are not the face in the mirror and you will not be that body in the casket; you are the light you brought to yourself and to others.
My name is Kevin, and I wrote this.
Fling away.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Car Tune
"Here in my car, I feel safest of all. I can lock all my doors, it's the only way to live. In cars."
- Gary Numan.
You've heard the song, you know you have. Even if you don't like it, you still find yourself humming or singing it if you hear it. It's one of those songs that's fun to sing and all those worries you might have just disappear for three minutes and thirty-seven seconds. For those, like me, who have a quirky love affair with music from the 1980s, it's an essential component of any 80s mixed CD you make for a cute girl. Well, that and "Take On Me" by A-ha, but that's another story.
For me, a car was always nothing more than a four-wheeled, motorized conveyance vessel for the purpose of getting you from Point A to Point B. Of course, this was in the days when I didn't have a car and just wanted to give my feet a much needed rest (I walked EVERYWHERE. I walked more than Jesus. In fact, I WAS like Jesus, save for the fact I don't look like a hippie, can't perform miracles and will most likely go to Hell).
I learned how to drive using the family van. This wasn't the emasculating minivan other men my age dejectedly have to pilot when they cart their precious little hellions to some organized activity they seem to feel their kids need. No, this was a Ford Econoline with a 351 Cleveland engine, mag wheels, captains chairs and a bed in the back my Pop constructed. It was a rolling love machine. I suppose it was a bit of a unique way to learn how to drive, surpassed only by a rocket sled, space shuttle or stolen police car. Whenever I was allowed to drive to the store, I always made sure I detoured to the school parking lot, where my friends hung out, and blasted "Kashmir" in a desperate attempt to look cool.
Eventually, I needed my own car. My Aunt Peg won a Benson & Hedges contest where she won every item shown in a magazine photo. One of those things was a Thunderbird, which made their Bronze Age-era Honda Accord expendable. It was my first car and this beggar wasn't being too choosy. My new car wasn't the most stylish thing on the road. It looked like it was designed by manic-depressive Dadaist artists. Each door, quarter panel and the hood were different colors and it was rusting so badly that pieces of it would fly off whenever I went at least 35 mph. But, it was mine, all mine, and for that, I loved it.
When I was in college, I found myself short on funds for rent one month, so I sold it to my friend, Norm. I told him I would sell it to him for $200 and split any repair costs for the next six months. Norm said if I sold it to him for $175, he would take care of any potential repair costs that ensued. Regrettably, I agreed and parted with my first car, but I needed a roof over my head more than four wheels under my ass. Two weeks later, I ran into Norm on campus. I asked him how the car was doing and he said "Doc (one of my many nicknames in college), it's running like a dream." I muttered a few insults in his direction through a clenched-teeth smile and went on my way to blow off another class. The following week, I ran into Norm again, but this time at one of the campus bus stops. As I recall, the conversation went down like this:
Me: "Say, Norm, why are you taking the bus? Where's the car?"
Norm: (exasperated gust of a sigh) "Doc, it died on me."
Me: "What happened?"
Norm: "Engine block cracked."
Me: "Bummer. But a deal's a deal."
Norm: "Yeah, but I only had it a few..."
Me: "Deal's a deal, Nommy."
I pivoted on my heel and walked towards another class that I eventually blew off. It taught me a lesson. Don't look for that lesson here because I've forgotten what it was. I was now ready for car #2.
My next vehicle was a 1972 Ford Maverick. Eggshell white. It was owned by my grandparents and probably never saw the north side of 45 mph. Ever. I took care of that within two seconds of turning the ignition. In fact, me getting behind the wheel probably shocked the poor automobile into a heart attack. Before you can say "You need to change the oil every now and again," it was left a smoking, hollow shell by the side of the highway.
Next was an early-80s Cutlass Supreme I inherited from my other grandmother. I never put oil into this car, either. It also died by the side of the road. This time, I I finally learned my lesson - never accept a car from a relative. It was time to buy a car from a respected used car dealer.
It was a stunningly beautiful Mustang. Ultra cool and as classic as they come, I had finally arrived. Unfortunately, it was possessed by the ghost of a disgruntled employee of Henry Ford. The first week I had it, the windshield cracked. After the first month, the paint started to flake off the hood. I was driving a leper car. Since it was rear-wheel drive and a very light car, driving in snow was sheer terror. Hell, it would careen all over the road even when it was cloudy. I'm a pretty brave man. I've killed a Bengal tiger with my bare hands, punched out a bull elephant and drank Coor's Light (don't let anyone fool you - Coor's Light isn't beer; it's grassy water with a hint of beer "flavoring"), but I was terrified driving this thing in bad weather. I once had a cackling truck driver put me into a snow bank on an uphill climb because I couldn't get any traction. Good time. At least I put oil into it. It was time to move on. It was also then I entered into a tortured love affair with the Ford Probe.
My mom owned an early model Ford Probe and that car was incredibly fun to drive. The one I bought (actually leased) was the same color as my ill-fated Mustang but it was a new model and looked like a sports car. Handled like one, too. Best of all, it was front wheel drive. Bring on the snow, Mother Nature, you bitter wench!
I. Loved. This. Car. It was so much fun to drive and handled like a Corvette. It also looked kinda cool. Then, on April 1, 1997, it all changed. I was driving back from Red Lobster with my girlfriend when an 18-wheeler merged into my driver's side door on I-95. I said to Michelle, "Man, that tire is getting awfully close to..." BANG! The tire hit my door. I couldn't have changed lanes because there was a car barely ahead of me to the right and I was waiting for him to get completely clear so I could change lanes. The impact sent us violently to the right. I tried to control the car and the steering locked up - and sent us right back towards the truck. We were headed right under the tires when I somehow had the wherewithall (one word?) to somehow guide the car away from certain pancaking and bounced back off the same tire that initiated this fun little adventure. We shot from left to right again and slammed into the guard rail. The impact was so great we rebounded back into the middle of the highway. God must have done well at the track that day because he was feeling generous and ensured there were no other cars close enough to us to either hit or hit us. After checking to see if Michelle was ok, I assessed my own personal damage. I was alive. We both were; and we both walked away relatively unscratched. It was a miracle. Hmmm, maybe I AM Jesus. Sadly, my little car didn't make it. It was completely totaled. It looked like it was destroyed by a truck or something. I was back at work by April 3rd.
I decided to get another Ford Probe since the first one sacrificed its life to save ours. This one was black, even sportier, and this time, no lease. Not much to say about this car other than it was an absolute dream to drive. I drove it until the wheels fell off and the engine seized in front of my Pop's house. In fact, it died just as I was coming off the highway ramp. The steering partially locked and I coasted off the ramp, merged on to the road, coasted slowly down to my Pop's street, pulled the muscles in both arms to turn down his street and eventually came to rest in front of his house. Time for Ford Probe #3.
This one was white and took a while to like, but once I did, it was a love affair all over again. It was a GT, with a tremendously expensive sound system, black tinted windows and erotically magnificent Pirelli tires. I had it for four years until it mysteriously stopped starting. I would have it towed to the shop where the mechanic would tell me that "It started right up for me." I would pick it up, drive it for a month or two, and the same thing would happen. This occurred about seven or eight times over the last two years and it was as frustrating as my experiences on Match.com (a future story. I won't reveal any names, sorry). It was almost as bad as having an insane girlfriend. I eventually had to cut the cord. Fortunately, my mechanic had a car he was willing to sell me for cheap. Wouldn't you know it - it was a hunter green...wait for it...Ford Probe. I'm not going to waste a new paragraph on that car because the transmission dropped out of it within two months. It was time to walk away and try a new direction.
I hunted all over for a Saab. My buddy, Doug, whose opinion I hold in high regard (one of the only people whose opinion I actually respect), has two of them and raves about them. He also knows it takes a certain dedicated person to own and properly maintain one. I figured I finally learned to change the oil in my car so I must be ready. I went to the lot to pick it up after seeing it online, but when I arrived, the convertible top wouldn't open. I had about three people try to make that damned thing open. Once it was finally opened, it wouldn't shut. I wouldn't have minded if it never was cold, rainy, snowing or I lived in a world without crime, but Utopia is a story not a reality. I took that time to case the lot to occupy my mind.
Then I saw it.
When I was young, there was a car a few neighborhoods over that bugged my eyes out of my head. It was a cherry red 1968 Jaguar XJ-12. Black convertible roof and brilliant, shimmering spoke rims. It was that classic "slipper" shape and even my primitive brain knew this was like dating the cutest girl in the office. No, I take that back. It was like being Hugh Hefner. Owning a car like that means you would never be able to notice what color the car was because it would be such a chick magnet women would just throw themselves on it. Ok, I'm drooling now. Moving on. Back to the car lot.
It was a Jaguar. I didn't dare...or did I? The owner of the lot came over to me and could see my Adam's Apple bouncing up and down like a Super Ball in an OCD asylum. "She's a beaut, isn't she?" I gurgled something like, "Me want" and he slapped the keys into my sweaty palm. I got behind the wheel and almost had an accident even before I turned the key. It was love. It was obsession. It was WAY out of my league.
I had to have it.
After taking what seemed like a fortnight, the paperwork was signed, the Saab was a vacant memory and I was pulling out of the lot. Ever date a girl who you KNEW was WAY too good for you? I have. Pretty much every girl I've ever dated. I didn't feel good enough to even look at it, let alone drive it. I could almost hear the car say to itself, "You've gotta be kidding me. I have YOU as an owner?" It was like holding a loaded gun and my hands were shaking on the steering wheel. I knew I had to get a grip and calm down. I was so worried about crashing that I almost crashed. Fortunately, I had my mp3 player with me. I had the cassette adapter and searched for a song to ease my mind. Then I found it and turned it up loud:
"Here in my car, I feel safest of all. I can lock all my doors, it's the only way to live. In cars."
Now if I can only remember to change the oil.
- Gary Numan.
You've heard the song, you know you have. Even if you don't like it, you still find yourself humming or singing it if you hear it. It's one of those songs that's fun to sing and all those worries you might have just disappear for three minutes and thirty-seven seconds. For those, like me, who have a quirky love affair with music from the 1980s, it's an essential component of any 80s mixed CD you make for a cute girl. Well, that and "Take On Me" by A-ha, but that's another story.
For me, a car was always nothing more than a four-wheeled, motorized conveyance vessel for the purpose of getting you from Point A to Point B. Of course, this was in the days when I didn't have a car and just wanted to give my feet a much needed rest (I walked EVERYWHERE. I walked more than Jesus. In fact, I WAS like Jesus, save for the fact I don't look like a hippie, can't perform miracles and will most likely go to Hell).
I learned how to drive using the family van. This wasn't the emasculating minivan other men my age dejectedly have to pilot when they cart their precious little hellions to some organized activity they seem to feel their kids need. No, this was a Ford Econoline with a 351 Cleveland engine, mag wheels, captains chairs and a bed in the back my Pop constructed. It was a rolling love machine. I suppose it was a bit of a unique way to learn how to drive, surpassed only by a rocket sled, space shuttle or stolen police car. Whenever I was allowed to drive to the store, I always made sure I detoured to the school parking lot, where my friends hung out, and blasted "Kashmir" in a desperate attempt to look cool.
Eventually, I needed my own car. My Aunt Peg won a Benson & Hedges contest where she won every item shown in a magazine photo. One of those things was a Thunderbird, which made their Bronze Age-era Honda Accord expendable. It was my first car and this beggar wasn't being too choosy. My new car wasn't the most stylish thing on the road. It looked like it was designed by manic-depressive Dadaist artists. Each door, quarter panel and the hood were different colors and it was rusting so badly that pieces of it would fly off whenever I went at least 35 mph. But, it was mine, all mine, and for that, I loved it.
When I was in college, I found myself short on funds for rent one month, so I sold it to my friend, Norm. I told him I would sell it to him for $200 and split any repair costs for the next six months. Norm said if I sold it to him for $175, he would take care of any potential repair costs that ensued. Regrettably, I agreed and parted with my first car, but I needed a roof over my head more than four wheels under my ass. Two weeks later, I ran into Norm on campus. I asked him how the car was doing and he said "Doc (one of my many nicknames in college), it's running like a dream." I muttered a few insults in his direction through a clenched-teeth smile and went on my way to blow off another class. The following week, I ran into Norm again, but this time at one of the campus bus stops. As I recall, the conversation went down like this:
Me: "Say, Norm, why are you taking the bus? Where's the car?"
Norm: (exasperated gust of a sigh) "Doc, it died on me."
Me: "What happened?"
Norm: "Engine block cracked."
Me: "Bummer. But a deal's a deal."
Norm: "Yeah, but I only had it a few..."
Me: "Deal's a deal, Nommy."
I pivoted on my heel and walked towards another class that I eventually blew off. It taught me a lesson. Don't look for that lesson here because I've forgotten what it was. I was now ready for car #2.
My next vehicle was a 1972 Ford Maverick. Eggshell white. It was owned by my grandparents and probably never saw the north side of 45 mph. Ever. I took care of that within two seconds of turning the ignition. In fact, me getting behind the wheel probably shocked the poor automobile into a heart attack. Before you can say "You need to change the oil every now and again," it was left a smoking, hollow shell by the side of the highway.
Next was an early-80s Cutlass Supreme I inherited from my other grandmother. I never put oil into this car, either. It also died by the side of the road. This time, I I finally learned my lesson - never accept a car from a relative. It was time to buy a car from a respected used car dealer.
It was a stunningly beautiful Mustang. Ultra cool and as classic as they come, I had finally arrived. Unfortunately, it was possessed by the ghost of a disgruntled employee of Henry Ford. The first week I had it, the windshield cracked. After the first month, the paint started to flake off the hood. I was driving a leper car. Since it was rear-wheel drive and a very light car, driving in snow was sheer terror. Hell, it would careen all over the road even when it was cloudy. I'm a pretty brave man. I've killed a Bengal tiger with my bare hands, punched out a bull elephant and drank Coor's Light (don't let anyone fool you - Coor's Light isn't beer; it's grassy water with a hint of beer "flavoring"), but I was terrified driving this thing in bad weather. I once had a cackling truck driver put me into a snow bank on an uphill climb because I couldn't get any traction. Good time. At least I put oil into it. It was time to move on. It was also then I entered into a tortured love affair with the Ford Probe.
My mom owned an early model Ford Probe and that car was incredibly fun to drive. The one I bought (actually leased) was the same color as my ill-fated Mustang but it was a new model and looked like a sports car. Handled like one, too. Best of all, it was front wheel drive. Bring on the snow, Mother Nature, you bitter wench!
I. Loved. This. Car. It was so much fun to drive and handled like a Corvette. It also looked kinda cool. Then, on April 1, 1997, it all changed. I was driving back from Red Lobster with my girlfriend when an 18-wheeler merged into my driver's side door on I-95. I said to Michelle, "Man, that tire is getting awfully close to..." BANG! The tire hit my door. I couldn't have changed lanes because there was a car barely ahead of me to the right and I was waiting for him to get completely clear so I could change lanes. The impact sent us violently to the right. I tried to control the car and the steering locked up - and sent us right back towards the truck. We were headed right under the tires when I somehow had the wherewithall (one word?) to somehow guide the car away from certain pancaking and bounced back off the same tire that initiated this fun little adventure. We shot from left to right again and slammed into the guard rail. The impact was so great we rebounded back into the middle of the highway. God must have done well at the track that day because he was feeling generous and ensured there were no other cars close enough to us to either hit or hit us. After checking to see if Michelle was ok, I assessed my own personal damage. I was alive. We both were; and we both walked away relatively unscratched. It was a miracle. Hmmm, maybe I AM Jesus. Sadly, my little car didn't make it. It was completely totaled. It looked like it was destroyed by a truck or something. I was back at work by April 3rd.
I decided to get another Ford Probe since the first one sacrificed its life to save ours. This one was black, even sportier, and this time, no lease. Not much to say about this car other than it was an absolute dream to drive. I drove it until the wheels fell off and the engine seized in front of my Pop's house. In fact, it died just as I was coming off the highway ramp. The steering partially locked and I coasted off the ramp, merged on to the road, coasted slowly down to my Pop's street, pulled the muscles in both arms to turn down his street and eventually came to rest in front of his house. Time for Ford Probe #3.
This one was white and took a while to like, but once I did, it was a love affair all over again. It was a GT, with a tremendously expensive sound system, black tinted windows and erotically magnificent Pirelli tires. I had it for four years until it mysteriously stopped starting. I would have it towed to the shop where the mechanic would tell me that "It started right up for me." I would pick it up, drive it for a month or two, and the same thing would happen. This occurred about seven or eight times over the last two years and it was as frustrating as my experiences on Match.com (a future story. I won't reveal any names, sorry). It was almost as bad as having an insane girlfriend. I eventually had to cut the cord. Fortunately, my mechanic had a car he was willing to sell me for cheap. Wouldn't you know it - it was a hunter green...wait for it...Ford Probe. I'm not going to waste a new paragraph on that car because the transmission dropped out of it within two months. It was time to walk away and try a new direction.
I hunted all over for a Saab. My buddy, Doug, whose opinion I hold in high regard (one of the only people whose opinion I actually respect), has two of them and raves about them. He also knows it takes a certain dedicated person to own and properly maintain one. I figured I finally learned to change the oil in my car so I must be ready. I went to the lot to pick it up after seeing it online, but when I arrived, the convertible top wouldn't open. I had about three people try to make that damned thing open. Once it was finally opened, it wouldn't shut. I wouldn't have minded if it never was cold, rainy, snowing or I lived in a world without crime, but Utopia is a story not a reality. I took that time to case the lot to occupy my mind.
Then I saw it.
When I was young, there was a car a few neighborhoods over that bugged my eyes out of my head. It was a cherry red 1968 Jaguar XJ-12. Black convertible roof and brilliant, shimmering spoke rims. It was that classic "slipper" shape and even my primitive brain knew this was like dating the cutest girl in the office. No, I take that back. It was like being Hugh Hefner. Owning a car like that means you would never be able to notice what color the car was because it would be such a chick magnet women would just throw themselves on it. Ok, I'm drooling now. Moving on. Back to the car lot.
It was a Jaguar. I didn't dare...or did I? The owner of the lot came over to me and could see my Adam's Apple bouncing up and down like a Super Ball in an OCD asylum. "She's a beaut, isn't she?" I gurgled something like, "Me want" and he slapped the keys into my sweaty palm. I got behind the wheel and almost had an accident even before I turned the key. It was love. It was obsession. It was WAY out of my league.
I had to have it.
After taking what seemed like a fortnight, the paperwork was signed, the Saab was a vacant memory and I was pulling out of the lot. Ever date a girl who you KNEW was WAY too good for you? I have. Pretty much every girl I've ever dated. I didn't feel good enough to even look at it, let alone drive it. I could almost hear the car say to itself, "You've gotta be kidding me. I have YOU as an owner?" It was like holding a loaded gun and my hands were shaking on the steering wheel. I knew I had to get a grip and calm down. I was so worried about crashing that I almost crashed. Fortunately, I had my mp3 player with me. I had the cassette adapter and searched for a song to ease my mind. Then I found it and turned it up loud:
"Here in my car, I feel safest of all. I can lock all my doors, it's the only way to live. In cars."
Now if I can only remember to change the oil.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
The Cereal Killer
I love cereal. MAN, I love me some cereal. I want to climb to the top of my Beavis and Butthead DVDs and proclaim to the world, "I *BLEEPING* LOVE CEREAL!!!!"
So, as you can see, I think cereal is pretty gosh-darned neat-o. It all started out back in nineteen-sixty-none-of-your-business when I could finally chew solid food. No more strained turkey necks, tapioca goo or other disgusting stuff that looks like it was wiped from the face of a sniffling third grader. No more! I had graduated to cereal. Wholesome oats and grains and milk...all a part of this balanced breakfast. Oh, and I forgot - about 10 wheelbarrows's worth of pure can sugar. But first, a little revisionist history on cereal.
Cereal was invented back in the 1800s by some self-righteous quack who served cold gruel in his sanitarium. That's right, you heard me - cereal was invented for the insane. One day, whilst concocting this fine blend of food mortar, some spilled on the stove. It cooked, cooled and flaked, creating the first dry cereal. As the years rolled into even more years, companies added spokespeople and mascots to get kids to pester their parents to buy it. Some things never change. Then, afraid that too many kids were pouring so much sugar into their bowls that the spoons actually could stand on end, the Battle Creek, Michigan cabal decided to create pre-sweetened cereal in an effort to CURB sugar from the diets of the pre-adolescent monsters.
Ok, pencils down. Before you know it, America was bombarded by cartoon tigers, sea captains and mysterious onomatopoetic elves. Sugar was still something that was a concern for parents, but only mildly so. It's what explains such names as SUGAR Pops, SUGAR Frosted Flakes, and most damning of all - SUPER SUGAR Crisp. The result were entire generations of kids eating so much sugar they vibrated across the living room floor while watching The Banana Splits. Bright colors, sing along jingles and progressively more annoying cartoon mascots brought things to critical mass and the moms of the world kicked a soccer ball into the crotch of the cereal manufacturers. Gone were any references to "sugar" in the name of the product, and seemingly overnight, we were buttonholed with officious-looking actors stressing the importance of fiber. The idea, I suppose, was to bring the kids off the swing set and into the bathroom. The sharp increase of children yelling, "Mommy, help!" from behind those bathrooms doors was deemed acceptable collateral damage.
When I was a kid, it was all about the prizes, from the cut-out Archies record on the back of Honeycomb cereal (the song was "Sugar, Sugar," according to the printout from my Irony Machine) to the rubberband-propelled car in Cap'n Crunch to the "Help Sugar Bear find the stash he ditched when the cops pulled him over" maze. As these novelties start impacting the bottom lines of these already-overpriced breakfast meals, more and more companies started giving away junk after you sent in about 100 box tops. My brother, Dave, and I saw through all that and always went for the cereal that had the coolest prize, like the zombie monkey paw or the fake vomit with little pieces of Alpha Bits embedded in the gunk. Good times. Often, Dave and I would be so torqued up to get the prize, we would jam our disease-laden hands deep down in the box to feel around for the plastic package. If it was Cap'n Crunch, we would pull our hands out, raw and bloody, from cereal that was as tough as unripened pine cones. The box opening, by that point, would resemble a gigantic oval and about two full bowls-worth of cereal would be all over the floor and summarily crushed under our feet as Dave and I wrestled over who would get the Frankenberry pencil sharpener.
In the 1970s, cereals really started to boom as cross-marketing tools for whatever hot new movie, video game or limp, wimpy cartoon was all the rage. There were Pink Panther Flakes, C-3POs (I'm not kidding), Donkey Kong, Pac-Man...hell, I won't be surprised if there's a South Park cereal on the horizon. Personally, I think the cereal manufacturers should have been a little more aggressive and dived in with both feet. Can you imagine the following cereals:
Godfather Cereal - shaped like little machine guns, with a picture of a strangled Luca Brasi on the front. The prize could be a life-like Sonny after he was machine-gunned down on the Causeway. Hey, it's the cereal "You Can't Refuse."
Pulp Fiction Cereal - shaped like little "Royale With Cheese" burgers and suitcase marshmallows, the prize would be a cut-out Gimp mask on the back. The front of the box would be Jules Winfield (portrayed by the amazing Samuel L. Jackson) saying, "Mmm-hmm, this IS a tasty burger!" Substitute Ezekiel 25:17 for the mask in Piggly Wigglys in the Bible Belt.
Boogie Nights Cereal - shaped like little disco balls and having an art deco design, it would have a cut-out record of "Disco Duck" by Rick Dees and His Cast of Idiots (along with a suicide hotline number) on the back with the words, "You're a Star. You're a Great Big Shining Star" on the front. The prize would be, well, if you've seen the last minute of the movie, you'll be wrestling your mom for the oversized prize, let's put it that way.
And now, I'd like to bring us to the part of the program where I get to share with you some of my favorite cereals from my youth. Pull down the blinds and put the gum under your desk.
Ah yes, the Freakies. Where else but in this country and during the early 1970s could you find a product AIMED AT KIDS named "Freakies"??? Pretty much like every other sugar-sweetened toasted oats cereal on the block, but the weird characters, oddly entrancing jingle and chuckling older siblings made this THE cereal to have when you were an aspiring adolescent. I had all the Freakies magnets and used to sing this song at the TV screen when the commercial came on. It explains my fondness for straitjackets.
Oh man, does this cereal ever bring back memories. Knowing full well how EVERYONE loves clowns and aren't creeped out by them at all, General Mills presented us with this eerie concoction of Stepford-smiling cereal pieces. Favored by Uni-Bombers and Ed Gein enthusiasts, it wouldn't have been a stretch to call THIS cereal "Freakies."
The name says it all. Nope, no drug culture references here. Taking a cue from those renowned counter-culture tricksters, Syd and Marty Krofft, creators of H.R. Pufenstuf (think about that name) and the less-veiled "Lidsville" (a "lid," in drug parlance, is a measure of drugs. Of course, no two people could ever agree how much was in a "lid"), Magic Puffs was just the next natural progression in getting youngsters to grow their hair long, smoke dope and build their entire code of ethics around Jim Morrison lyrics. The magic "trick" inside was how to turn a stalk of celery into a bong.
Ah, Quisp, my personal favorite. I still have a Quisp T-shirt somewhere around here. You never see this cereal anymore although legend has it Quaker is still producing it. Don't you dare say anything bad about this cereal or I will come to your house and beat you up.
Part breakfast cereal, part ensemble comedy cast. G&S&G&L took longer to say than it was on
the shelves, but that didn't stop me from plowing through several boxes of it in my youth. Something about an anthropomorphic cereal machine with ears by its mouth appealed to my cosmic adolescent nature. From Purina, this Kid Chow featured mascots who looked like middle management accountants tripped up on nitrous oxide with the only normal character being the funky robot with cereal for brains. Most likely made on a dare, this product was the AMC Pacer of breakfast cereals. The person responsible was probably not only fired by Purina but brought up on charges for treason.
I still enjoy a bowl of cereal today. Like many idiots my age, quite a number of people can groove on a bowl of Lucky Charms, Cocoa Puffs or, as I am finding out, Fruity Pebbles, which has an almost cult-like following. Dad can keep eating his bland shredded wheat and Wheaties. Mom can have her Grape Nuts and Total. Me? I'm about to tuck into some Frosted Flakes. I still think they taste good. Oh hell, you know it's coming and I know it's coming. Breakfast cereals aren't just good food.
They're GR-E-E-E-A-A-T-T!
So, as you can see, I think cereal is pretty gosh-darned neat-o. It all started out back in nineteen-sixty-none-of-your-business when I could finally chew solid food. No more strained turkey necks, tapioca goo or other disgusting stuff that looks like it was wiped from the face of a sniffling third grader. No more! I had graduated to cereal. Wholesome oats and grains and milk...all a part of this balanced breakfast. Oh, and I forgot - about 10 wheelbarrows's worth of pure can sugar. But first, a little revisionist history on cereal.
Cereal was invented back in the 1800s by some self-righteous quack who served cold gruel in his sanitarium. That's right, you heard me - cereal was invented for the insane. One day, whilst concocting this fine blend of food mortar, some spilled on the stove. It cooked, cooled and flaked, creating the first dry cereal. As the years rolled into even more years, companies added spokespeople and mascots to get kids to pester their parents to buy it. Some things never change. Then, afraid that too many kids were pouring so much sugar into their bowls that the spoons actually could stand on end, the Battle Creek, Michigan cabal decided to create pre-sweetened cereal in an effort to CURB sugar from the diets of the pre-adolescent monsters.
Ok, pencils down. Before you know it, America was bombarded by cartoon tigers, sea captains and mysterious onomatopoetic elves. Sugar was still something that was a concern for parents, but only mildly so. It's what explains such names as SUGAR Pops, SUGAR Frosted Flakes, and most damning of all - SUPER SUGAR Crisp. The result were entire generations of kids eating so much sugar they vibrated across the living room floor while watching The Banana Splits. Bright colors, sing along jingles and progressively more annoying cartoon mascots brought things to critical mass and the moms of the world kicked a soccer ball into the crotch of the cereal manufacturers. Gone were any references to "sugar" in the name of the product, and seemingly overnight, we were buttonholed with officious-looking actors stressing the importance of fiber. The idea, I suppose, was to bring the kids off the swing set and into the bathroom. The sharp increase of children yelling, "Mommy, help!" from behind those bathrooms doors was deemed acceptable collateral damage.
When I was a kid, it was all about the prizes, from the cut-out Archies record on the back of Honeycomb cereal (the song was "Sugar, Sugar," according to the printout from my Irony Machine) to the rubberband-propelled car in Cap'n Crunch to the "Help Sugar Bear find the stash he ditched when the cops pulled him over" maze. As these novelties start impacting the bottom lines of these already-overpriced breakfast meals, more and more companies started giving away junk after you sent in about 100 box tops. My brother, Dave, and I saw through all that and always went for the cereal that had the coolest prize, like the zombie monkey paw or the fake vomit with little pieces of Alpha Bits embedded in the gunk. Good times. Often, Dave and I would be so torqued up to get the prize, we would jam our disease-laden hands deep down in the box to feel around for the plastic package. If it was Cap'n Crunch, we would pull our hands out, raw and bloody, from cereal that was as tough as unripened pine cones. The box opening, by that point, would resemble a gigantic oval and about two full bowls-worth of cereal would be all over the floor and summarily crushed under our feet as Dave and I wrestled over who would get the Frankenberry pencil sharpener.
In the 1970s, cereals really started to boom as cross-marketing tools for whatever hot new movie, video game or limp, wimpy cartoon was all the rage. There were Pink Panther Flakes, C-3POs (I'm not kidding), Donkey Kong, Pac-Man...hell, I won't be surprised if there's a South Park cereal on the horizon. Personally, I think the cereal manufacturers should have been a little more aggressive and dived in with both feet. Can you imagine the following cereals:
Godfather Cereal - shaped like little machine guns, with a picture of a strangled Luca Brasi on the front. The prize could be a life-like Sonny after he was machine-gunned down on the Causeway. Hey, it's the cereal "You Can't Refuse."
Pulp Fiction Cereal - shaped like little "Royale With Cheese" burgers and suitcase marshmallows, the prize would be a cut-out Gimp mask on the back. The front of the box would be Jules Winfield (portrayed by the amazing Samuel L. Jackson) saying, "Mmm-hmm, this IS a tasty burger!" Substitute Ezekiel 25:17 for the mask in Piggly Wigglys in the Bible Belt.
Boogie Nights Cereal - shaped like little disco balls and having an art deco design, it would have a cut-out record of "Disco Duck" by Rick Dees and His Cast of Idiots (along with a suicide hotline number) on the back with the words, "You're a Star. You're a Great Big Shining Star" on the front. The prize would be, well, if you've seen the last minute of the movie, you'll be wrestling your mom for the oversized prize, let's put it that way.
And now, I'd like to bring us to the part of the program where I get to share with you some of my favorite cereals from my youth. Pull down the blinds and put the gum under your desk.
Ah yes, the Freakies. Where else but in this country and during the early 1970s could you find a product AIMED AT KIDS named "Freakies"??? Pretty much like every other sugar-sweetened toasted oats cereal on the block, but the weird characters, oddly entrancing jingle and chuckling older siblings made this THE cereal to have when you were an aspiring adolescent. I had all the Freakies magnets and used to sing this song at the TV screen when the commercial came on. It explains my fondness for straitjackets.
Oh man, does this cereal ever bring back memories. Knowing full well how EVERYONE loves clowns and aren't creeped out by them at all, General Mills presented us with this eerie concoction of Stepford-smiling cereal pieces. Favored by Uni-Bombers and Ed Gein enthusiasts, it wouldn't have been a stretch to call THIS cereal "Freakies."
The name says it all. Nope, no drug culture references here. Taking a cue from those renowned counter-culture tricksters, Syd and Marty Krofft, creators of H.R. Pufenstuf (think about that name) and the less-veiled "Lidsville" (a "lid," in drug parlance, is a measure of drugs. Of course, no two people could ever agree how much was in a "lid"), Magic Puffs was just the next natural progression in getting youngsters to grow their hair long, smoke dope and build their entire code of ethics around Jim Morrison lyrics. The magic "trick" inside was how to turn a stalk of celery into a bong.
Ah, Quisp, my personal favorite. I still have a Quisp T-shirt somewhere around here. You never see this cereal anymore although legend has it Quaker is still producing it. Don't you dare say anything bad about this cereal or I will come to your house and beat you up.Another favorite of mine. One of the Monster Cereals that never gained any traction. Count 
Chocula, Frankenberry and Boo Berry had a good racket going and money split three ways goes a lot further than split four ways. Pretty much the Pete Best of the Monster Cereals, and later replaced by the staggeringly similar Yummy Mummy, Frute Brute lives on in the widescreen edition of Pulp Fiction when Lance is watching the Three Stooges at night before John Travolta careens his car into the side of the house.
Chocula, Frankenberry and Boo Berry had a good racket going and money split three ways goes a lot further than split four ways. Pretty much the Pete Best of the Monster Cereals, and later replaced by the staggeringly similar Yummy Mummy, Frute Brute lives on in the widescreen edition of Pulp Fiction when Lance is watching the Three Stooges at night before John Travolta careens his car into the side of the house. 
See? SEE??? I TOLD you Cap'n Crunch made a vanilla crunch cereal! And you didn't believe me. Oh, you believed me when I told you my dad built the Empire State Building all by himself, but NOOOOOO, you didn't believe me when I told you about Vanilly Crunch and Wilma the White Whale! This is my sweet, sweet victory for all you bozos to face up to after years and years of doubting me. Feel the sting!
Let's see here. There's a cheeky rodent on the box (yes, beavers are rodents) and what looks like rodent droppings in the bowl. You first. Actually, these weren't bad...and that says more about me than I care to share.
Let's see here. There's a cheeky rodent on the box (yes, beavers are rodents) and what looks like rodent droppings in the bowl. You first. Actually, these weren't bad...and that says more about me than I care to share.Part breakfast cereal, part ensemble comedy cast. G&S&G&L took longer to say than it was on
the shelves, but that didn't stop me from plowing through several boxes of it in my youth. Something about an anthropomorphic cereal machine with ears by its mouth appealed to my cosmic adolescent nature. From Purina, this Kid Chow featured mascots who looked like middle management accountants tripped up on nitrous oxide with the only normal character being the funky robot with cereal for brains. Most likely made on a dare, this product was the AMC Pacer of breakfast cereals. The person responsible was probably not only fired by Purina but brought up on charges for treason.I still enjoy a bowl of cereal today. Like many idiots my age, quite a number of people can groove on a bowl of Lucky Charms, Cocoa Puffs or, as I am finding out, Fruity Pebbles, which has an almost cult-like following. Dad can keep eating his bland shredded wheat and Wheaties. Mom can have her Grape Nuts and Total. Me? I'm about to tuck into some Frosted Flakes. I still think they taste good. Oh hell, you know it's coming and I know it's coming. Breakfast cereals aren't just good food.
They're GR-E-E-E-A-A-T-T!
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