Beware: I Now Own A Camera Phone

[Blog? What blog? What are you talking about? I don’t have one of those things, and if I did, nobody would notice if I neglected to update it for several weeks. Seriously, get real.]

Life, as you may or may not have noticed, is endlessly hilarious. I certainly hope that you have noticed, because if you haven’t, you’re not paying enough attention. I offer the following photographic evidence, gathered thanks to my spectacular new camera phone.

I was wandering through the mall in good old Urbana-Champaign the other day looking for a new pair of sunglasses because the pair I was given three years ago finally fell apart. As a side note, I think that shopping for sunglasses might be one of my least favorite activities, because the process generally goes something like this: 1. Look at row after row of awful sunglasses that you can’t possibly get away with wearing in public. 2. Try on a pair out of desperation. 3. Look into tiny mirror, think, “I look like an idiot in these.” 4. Repeat one thousand times. In the midst of that time-sucking black hole, I stumbled upon the following:




Yes, this is a five foot by two foot canvas of a reproduction of a painting of a lineup of TV’s “Friends,” complete with “This really is a painting” features such as sentiment-inducing smudgy effects in the background. Yes, it can be yours for only $175. Yes, there is an entire kiosk in the mall selling reproductions of paintings of famous moments from television and film. I should have stopped for long enough to see if I could purchase a five foot by two foot reproduction of a painting of Bruce Willis gunning down terrorists in "Die Hard", but I was too disoriented.

Instead, I wandered towards the exit in a cloud of confusion until I noticed the following sign outside of Vitamin World:




Attention, Vitamin World customers: If there is something wrong with you that necessitates the purchase of a product called “No-Xplode,” please call 911 promptly. Also, “Muscle Milk” is slightly troubling.

The following is a photograph of a flat of Sprite purchased at Cost-Co (Motto: Why Buy One When You Can Buy Forty?) and left in the back of my car for several very hot days. Apparently Sprite does not react well to prolonged heat and direct sunlight:




Now, I can understand how the cans might have bulged a little bit from the added pressure caused by cooking in a hot car for a few days, but the total structural failure of one can and the partial fracturing of another took me a bit by surprise. I found the blown-off can top a few feet away in the back of my car. It was suggested to me that Cost-Co might refund my money if I complained, but I don’t think they would believe me if I told them what happened. Probably they would just try to placate me with a complimentary case of five million toothpicks and send me on my way.

And finally, I present to you the contents of the trash can on the second hole of a nearby golf course:




That’s hole number two, folks. As golf is played in foursomes, that comes out to one half of a big plastic bottle of Jim Beam per golfer. And it was a nine-hole course, so these fellows weren’t planning on stretching their drinking out over five hours. As we played through the course, I fully expected to find two overturned golf carts, four dead bodies and fifty-six golf clubs lying in a heap at the bottom of a hill, but had no such luck. Apparently these party-golfers managed to navigate the course without disaster. I guess life can’t be hilarious all of the time.

Buicks and Other Road Hazards

[Attention: The following semi-rant was composed while having my spine reshaped by the anti-ergonomic chairs at the local Bureau of Motor Vehicles. For two hours plus fifteen minutes. This will make a person, well, harsh. In editing, I have tried to soften it, but several of my vertebra are still unwilling to let bygones be bygones.]

I’m car person. I enjoy driving more than the average person, which is good because I do quite a lot of it. I also pay attention to cars in general – makes, models, designs, features, etc. As a result of my interest and the amount of time I spend on the road, I’ve developed some strong beliefs about what certain cars say about their owners. For instance, you know that the guy in the beat-up VW Microbus is still broken up about Jerry Garcia or that the sixteen-year-old in a Porche is maybe a little over-pampered. I would like to add a few observations to the list. If in doing so, I happen to describe your car in a derogatory manner, this does not reflect personally on you, just on everyone else who drives that kind of car.

Buicks
The vehicle for boring people. Design-wise, it is a car that sums up everything that is wrong with American automakers. For example, imagine someone saying the following in a serious tone: “Wow, what a cool Buick.” See? Impossible. And why? Consider:

Buick Century:




Buick Regal:




Buick LeSabre:




Buick LaCrosse (the “sporty” Buick):




Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....oh, sorry, slipped into a coma there. Probably from retinal boredom. You’ll notice that these cars don’t stop at merely having an aesthetic relationship that identifies them as being from the same maker. Instead, Buick has gone one step further and made them look identical. Because design work like this just begs to be repeated.

Given the oatmealesque visual approach, it follows that people who buy Buicks are people who don’t care too much about driving. Cars serve to get them from point A to point B. Eventually. They drive the same way someone might take a leisurely stroll on the beach. Except that on the beach, there are not people in your blind spot or who want to pass you or who will run into you from behind when you fail to signal that you’re turning at the next sandcastle. If there is a car going five mph under the speed limit, or turning without signaling, or braking randomly in the middle of an empty road, or entering the freeway going 45, or driving 55 in the fast lane, it is always, always, always a Buick. No, really. Always. If you are driving a Buick, I offer you the following piece of advice: Don’t.

[Footnote: I would point out that much of the above applies to Oldsmobiles as well, but it’s rude to speak ill of the dead.]

[Also footnote: Do you sense the influences of the BMV and its evil chiropractic chairs? I’m really a much nicer guy than this. Really.]

[Also also footnote: If you are currently driving a Buick that was passed on to you, sold to you by a relative at a very low price, or came into your possession in another way that was based on necessity or that was out of your control, I sympathize. I am, after all, a person who, sort of inadvertently, drove a Chevy Corsica for two years. Your Buick is exempted from my wrath so long as you don't drive it like a stoned, lobotomized, moron.]

Ford Escort
For several years now, I have noticed a high correlation between Ford Escorts – station wagon version, usually – and handicapped stickers. Has anyone else noticed this? Is it just me? I'm not drawing any conclusion, just wanted to put it out there.

Minivans, all varieties
People driving minivans tend to be going either very fast or very slowly, because:

Very fast = “If I don’t get home in the next two minutes and release my wild, screaming children into the back yard I am going to have to stop and tie them up or at least whack them a little with a whiffle bat and then I’ll probably be assigned a social worker and that will not look good at the next PTA meeting.”

Very slowly = “Put that down!” (Turning half around to reach into back seat) “Give me that! Stop hitting your sister with that and give it to me! I’m not kidding!” (Driving ten under the speed limit, drifting into oncoming traffic).

Nissan Maxima.
Speed limit plus 35-50%. Almost without exception. Consistently the fastest cars on the road. No idea why.

1992 Honda Civic (Or Honda Prelude. Or Acura Integra. Or Honda Accord. Or Chevy Beretta. Or any other relatively old, cheap coupe or sedan. The important part is the accessories: Tinted windows, lowered chassis, low profile tires, $2300 rims, gigantic tail fin, at least one body panel is the wrong color, extra-loud muffler, sixteen subwoofers, windshield sticker that says “HONDA” or other make in foot-high letters. )
This individual tends to have some sort of chip on his shoulder. His cruise control is broken, so his highway speed depends entirely on your speed. He must be going faster than you at all times, except for when he zones out listening to Kid Rock and slows to 50. Between songs, he will then regain his senses and angrily re-pass you going 110. This rubber-band effect can go on for miles. This is a guy who I really, really hope doesn’t have any major financial obligations, like, say, children, because his priorities are in a very strange and money-sucking place.

Luxury/Conversion Van, all varieties
“Sure, I’m only going .43 mph faster than the 18-wheelers, but I have a God-given right to be on this interstate too, and I’m going to block up the left lane for the next twelve miles as I pass six semis in a row. And flick cigarette butts out my window at you while I do it.”

Pontiac Aztek
Oh Aztek driver, I am staying far away from you, because are obviously blind. You have purchased the undisputed ugliest car ever created. Ever. Really. It is a Rhinoceros. See:




What does this all add up to? I have no idea. It might just mean that I’m guilty of automotive profiling and need sensitivity training. But deep in my heart, I know that I’m right, and I just wanted to set the record straight about these things. So there's that.