February 28th, 2007

Getting Hit By a Car

Alright people, we’re well into 2007. We’re going to face some tough challenges this year, particularly in the area of alternative energy. As our brave and noble president said last year, we are addicted to oil. Look at the price of gasoline. Didn’t it reach an all-time high last year? We have to make the leap to a new energy source to power our cars.

More importantly, I would like us all to come to a concensus on something. When we are in our expensive, inefficient, polluting cars, and we see a new Volkswagen Beetle are we allowed to do “Punchbug” to the person next to us?

I say “no.” The custom started with the original cars and I believe they alone deserve this special place of honor (especially considering they are still running so many years later). Sure the reissue is nice and, visually, stays pretty true to the original design, but come on: engine in the front?

Please don’t think me a stick-in-the-mud here. I know there is no feeling more delightful than the one you get when you catch sight of a Beetle before the person next to you (especially if this person happens to be your sibling). It pulls up on your side and they don’t ever notice. They’re over there, listlessly staring out their window, lost in their own peaceful, little world. That feeling as you tighten your fist and turn toward them. Slowwwwly now. Make it last.

THWACK!

Ha-ha-ha! Right in the shoulder! And what makes it all so sweet? There is nothing the punchee can do about it, as long as you have made it clear that “Punchbug!” is occurring and defined the car color causing cthe commotion (How ’bout that for an alliterative streak! What’s that? “The word ‘the’ does not start with or even contain ‘c’.” Man, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.). You are protected, by the US constitution, from punch-backs.

Actually, I have been benefited from probably the only loophole you can find in this tradition. It happened back in Greenville, NC, when Steph and I were still in school. We were in the car and she was first to notice a VW Beetle as it approached us on the opposite side of the road. She punched me. “Punchbug!” she exclaimed. Then she proceeded to call out the wrong car color. For real. I don’t remember what color she said, nor do I remember what color the car was, but I definitely remember she was way off. This was no “Punchbug Teal!” instead of “Punchbug Seafoam!” or “Punchbug Tan!” instead of “Punchbug Beige!” This was “Punchbug Blue!” as a bright red Beetle cruised past us. This was what mental health professionals refer to as a “brain fart.”

Now I have the utmost respect for sacred rites such as “Punchbug” — even when I’m on the sucky end of them — but I think we can all agree that pronouncing the hue of the car correctly is key to this ritual. Only then can it be absolutely clear to everyone what has transpired and what rules and regulations are in place. As Stephanie had been off by a mile on the vehicle’s color, I felt fully entitled to proclaim the actual color of the motor vehicle and to administer an accompanying punch….

And I could not help myself. Perhaps this is why I have been sleeping on the couch ever since we got married.

Anyway, you can see the lengths I’m willing to go to for “Punchbug.” Still I believe extending this to the new Beetles is disrespectful to the original vehicles and to the ritual.

There have to be some newer car-model-induced-acts-of-malice we can introduce to the world instead. (I don’t know about you, but every time I see a Hummer I just want to take a swing at something.)

Maybe every time you see a Honda Element you yell out “Box Car!” and box the ears of the person next to you. How about that? Alright, alright. I’m just throwing out ideas here.

Maybe you quickly dread the hair of your victim when you see a Prius — a car that, by the way, has made great strides in the area of alternative energy, another issue that is of great importance to me.

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November 17th, 2006

Aparkolypse Now

Hell in a handbasket. It’s where we’re all going and there’s more evidence of it everyday.

This week, specifically, I’m talking about this new Lexus that parks itself. And we’re not even talking your normal, everyday, pull-straight-into-the-space kind of parking. We’re talking threading itself in between two distinct boundaries while aligning itself with the curb in a parallel fashion.

In the commercial they show a guy pull up to the space and hit this magic button. He lets go of the steering wheel and the car dutifully and precisely puts itself into the available space. And when it’s done it says, “There you go, Michael,” in a robotic voice.

Ok I made that last bit up so I could throw in a Knight Rider reference. But I’m serious about the main part of this. The parking part.

What does this say about us, as a culture? Yes, parallel parking is difficult. It takes concentration. It takes time and effort to master, and sometimes, when you have to do it under pressure, it can be tedious and even panic-inducing…. So what do we demand? A computer that does it for us.

This is the exact same attitude that brought us the drum machine.

And this is to say nothing of the fact that the whole self-maneuvering car idea seems pretty ridiculous. I have a hard time believing that, in all the different environments and circumstances where you’re required to parallel park, this car will work as advertised.

All you really need, those of you who were excited by prospect of this car, is a Smitty to ride shotgun with you. Then when you came across some insurmountable parking situation, you could switch places and let Smitty put your car where it needed to go.

Currently you’re probably wondering “Who is this ‘Smitty’?” and “Is he really that good at parking?” and “Should I keep reading this nonsense or go check the weather?” Well, to answer your first two questions…. In this day and age, we no longer gather ’round the hearth and invent “tall tales” as a form of entertainment (thanks again, technology), but were this tradition still in practice, I would most certainly spin you a yarn about Smitty and his amazing parking ability. As exaggeration and farfetchedness are key in a tall tale, I’d probably claim Smitty once road a blue whale to shore and parallel-parked it in a shoebox…though this scenario would definitely take me some time to set up.

In other words, yes, wherever you needed your car parked, he can do it. I used to work with the guy, and quite often we’d go to lunch in downtown Raleigh. He could spot a sufficient space on the street from blocks away, then swing up just ahead of it, and the next thing you knew you were standing outside, on the sidewalk. Smitty’s manual transmission Chevy Blazer (not the tiniest of vehicles, by the way) was perfectly-positioned in the space and you had no recollection of how it got there. I don’t even think, during the process, that he had to touch his foot to the brake pedal. It was all so seamless.

I guess what I’m really getting at here is: I’d like to put Smitty in a “John Henry”-style-parallel-parking-show-down with this new LS 460L.

You just name the time and place, Lexus.

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March 23rd, 2006

Meet Virginia

Steph and I went to visit her mom, stepdad, and brother this past weekend. They live in Hot Springs, a very, very, very small town in Northern Virginia. It’s about a six-hour drive, usually involving going north through North Carolina, then cutting northwest once you’re over the Virginia border (there are about 10 different ways you can go, all of which take the same amount of time), and heading up into the mountains, where, at many points, there are no signs of civilization.

This may sound pretty uneventful, but our ventures up and back are never without some type of incident. There’s always something along the way giving us white knuckles. Over Christmas it was ice covering the steep mountain roads. This last trip the “Check Engine” light in Steph’s Hyundai came on, for some unknown reason, in the middle of nowhere. We drove home with it staring back at us, knowing full well that you can’t get cell phone reception for almost half the trip home, so there’s no way to call for help when you get in trouble…. Good times.

Also, we have yet to complete a trip to Steph’s family’s without getting lost at least once. Partly because we’re always trying new, unfamiliar routes. Partly because we’re always get into serious discussions (“where we are going with our lives,” etc.) on long car trips, to the point where we’re no longer looking out for the requisite highway signs.

Not that the signage is very helpful, in this case. The roads in these parts are really only meant for people who have lived in the area all their lives and just know where they need to go. On our journey up last fall, we decided to take all back roads once we got to the mid-section of Virginia. Well, somewhere in there, we missed whatever highway it was that would have taken us west. (I maintain to this day that the turn we were supposed to make had no label whatsoever.) Once we realized we were off course, I consulted the map. I found what looked like a reasonable route from where we were. No need to back track. So we kept going. Soon, even the few little homes and farm operations that had kept us company on most the trip had disappeared. Then it got dark. And out came the deer. I was already on edge, waiting to hear those first few notes of “Duelin’ Banjos,” and these groups of deer darting across the road every few minutes were not helping. We kept plugging along. At certain points the car was at what felt like a 45-degree angle, heading up some very steep inclines. The car’s 4-cylinder engine was straining for every last bit of torque. After driving in these conditions for hours we got to a place where deer were just hanging out in the middle of the road…. Have you ever driven up to a deer that doesn’t so much as flinch? Not the most comforting experience. We’d pull right up and honk the horn and they’d turn, look at us for a minute, and then slowly saunter off the gravel. (The “highway,” by the way, had deteriorated into a gravel road many miles before this.) The needle of the gas gauge was fast approaching “E.” Then, I swear to you, we started to hear howling in the distance. Wolves or coyotes or something. Who knows where we were? I hadn’t seen any indication of what road we were on for 90 miles. Then we passed a group of deer that were just leaning against a guard rail, smoking…. But wait, the road is sloping downward! We’re heading down the mountain! Oh my God, there’s The Homestead! We’re saved!

And this is basically how the trip up to Hot Springs works. Every time. If it’s daylight and your car is working ok, it is one of the most beautiful parts of the country. Of course, after many hours of it, you become less enthralled and more concerned that you’ve been driving in circles…. There’s a lot of it and it all looks very similar. If you go far enough down 220 (the only path to and through Hot Springs) though, the little two-lane road eventually runs smack into a huge, ornate, mansion-type building. This is the one major attraction Bath county has to offer: The Homestead. It’s a resort, nestled high in the Blue Ridge mountains, where you can go to get away from it all — if you can afford it. Based on the number of Land Rovers I’ve seen zipping about and the number of ladies I’ve seen walking around in fur coats, it’s a bit pricey.

The Homestead is where almost everyone who lives in Hot Springs works. Steph’s step-grandad, Mac, works there as a cook.

The scene when you come over the mountain and first see this behemoth really sticks in your mind. This is why I recognized a snapshot of it in a box of photos that my family received after they’d been cleaned out of my grandma’s house. I didn’t understand why grandma had this picture, since she’s been a resident of Michigan all her life, but it turns out it was from she and my grandpa’s honeymoon! They went to The Homestead! (Steph’s mom and step dad Larry came up to The Homestead for their honeymoon, too, though they were still living in North Carolina at that time!) And, get this, my dad was born nine months after my grandparent’s honeymoon, so when I go to visit my in-laws I could be in the very town where he was conceived!

I’m sorry, but when we’re all finally in the same room I’m going to suggest we lock arms and sing a rousing chorus of “It’s a Small World After All.”

I’ll be singing the loudest. After the crazy trips I’ve had to that town, I’m just happy to still be alive.

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