My god, I love the earth. And not just in some ethereal, “We are all one with nature” kind of way, but the way that way appreciates every breath I take, so long as it takes me a little further away from death.
I love my wife. I love my dogs. I love my friends – few such as they are.
I love walking around and taking in life – which is why you’ll never see me as one of those sad individuals who can only get through a bus ride or standing in line by starting intently at the screen on their phone.
I love writing, even though it ain’t made me more than a bucket of money.
What I don’t like – almost to the point of loathing – are the shapes of so many hybrid vehicles that we see on the roads today. The ones driven by folks who love the earth so much that they are teaching their children that aesthetics and beauty just get in the way of a good time (and cold efficiency) when all is said and done.
Little boxes, driving up and down our streets, driven by folks who seem as proud as if they were James Garner in Grand Prix.
Then again, this is the same generation which has come to believe that it’s okay to lower our standards enough to “enjoy” movies by watching them on cell phones.
Honda, in fact, has recently introduced the N-Box vehicle. Though only planned for the Spanish market, some industry analysts predict the vehicle will hit the American shores soon.
In the meantime, though, we can still be satisfied that Americans will toodle around in their own widdle box-like contraptions, completely unaware of the savage beauty of the N-Box.
There is a certain insult to car lovers there, to not even go through the motions of coming up with a name, as corny as it might be.
I realize that the above makes me sound like some sort of raving non-environmentalist, but that is far from the case. I remember the days when safety standards were much less stringent than they are today, when merely driving down the street was like driving down the aisles of a chemical plant.
They were horrible days.
But I live with a woman who would very happily on some days trade me in for a Bugatti, and many of the people I have known (especially, it seems, the women I have loved) have known a great deal about cars, and the aesthetics of these vehicles.
Are we so happy – and I am happy, come to that – to now have hybrid vehicles that no one dares ask why they have to be so damned ugly?
Oh, Mini Cooper: We laughed and laughed and laughed . . .
The first time I ever saw a Mini Cooper was in 1964, when my father was stationed to England for the second time. As we arrived in Liverpool to stay with our grandparents’ for a month, my sister Maryanne and I got our first looks at the famous Mini Coopers – cars which can be seen all over the place now, including Fayetteville. They are sort of like Triffids in that regard.
We had just come from Vermont, a state in a country where if your car wasn’t the size of a small boat you were suspected of probably having Marxist tendencies at the very least.
Being the mature children that we were, we took one look and we laughed.
And we laughed.
And we laughed . . .
Almost every time I see one today I think of that.
What if Walmart news wasn’t on Page One?
This pretty much goes for television news as well, actually. The annual Wally World Shareholders meeting took place in Fayetteville this week, which I am grateful for on the grounds that it helps our sales tax revenue.
Yesterday they had the morning “concert” for shareholders. This has always struck me as sort of creepy. It always seem a sort of night-time event held in the morning – sort of Branson on Dickson Street.
Reading the newspapers every day during the convention is sort of fun. Since Walmart news is on the front – no matter how banal – you have to look inside to see where the real page one story is. The same case holds true for watching television nightly news.
Of course, any time that Walmart Command issues a press release, even if just means that smocks will be a lighter shade of blue, it will take precedence over real news in newspapers or on local television.
Quote of the Day
After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music. – Aldous Huxley