You’d think the recent migration to WordPress 3.0, a positively seismic shift in blogging platforms, would be the only major site improvement for a while. You’d think that, and you’d be wrong. Our last rebrand was almost two years ago–an eon in Internet terms–and it may be time for a new logo. I’ve yet to decide. Personally I’ve been happy with the parrot, fervently believing he soothes you whenever you visit. Or perhaps he terrifies you with his foul language, which would be even better. No, the brand refresh was a suggestion, and I want you to know, here and now, that I take all feedback very seriously.
Except for the suggestions I immediately discount, of course. One such recommendation called for new posts to be automatically delivered via electronic mail. I may have audibly scoffed upon hearing this. The idea of applying “feed” technology to this site, this institution, was an affront. Patent ridiculosity. I will not be DVRed, first and foremost, and what’s more, here at Secondhand Rants we’re committed to remaining technologically backwards by approximately 10 years. Always! That’s a promise. Even the search box I unveiled recently–well, I suspect it’s powered by witchcraft, shrouded in dark magicks too potent for human understanding.
But a new logo? That I could stomach. Boo Bear seems amenable to the task, and it’s a commission I gladly charge. I still think the parrot is clever to the utmost. What’s next? Maybe a Victrola? I’ll have to wait and see. Same restrictions apply, naturally. No flowery fonts or girl colors whatsoever. Basically I want the exact opposite of what she usually sells. I’m secretly hoping the profanity bubble will be filled with actual words instead of symbols this time, because in doing so she would bring about a tear in the delicate, fuzzy-wuzzy ecology of Etsy.com, possibly causing a storehouse filled with swatches of macramé somewhere in Wyoming to erupt in cleansing fire. One can only hope.
Hot as it’s been these past few days, with the mercury seemingly frozen in the 90, 95 degree range, I’ve got something even more sizzling for your perusal tonight: a blog post! Indeed, an entire Internet-based journal entry, handcrafted with the finest locally grown adjectives and verbs. Also, profanity. But that’s to be expected, especially when the topic of driving is at hand.
Perfect traffic, according to my narrow definition, is when I can hit cruise control at my favorite velocities–14 over limit on interstates, 7-10 over limit on local roads–for an uninterrupted mile or two in either the middle or slow lanes. For single-lane roads, this essentially means I’ve got the pavement to myself, no slower cars ahead of me, no faster cars behind me.
Such conditions are rarely achieved, of course, and frequently foiled by external factors. Red lights, for instance. Stop signs also come to mind. More often than not, though, it’s because of some schmoe in the fast lane who insists on going at exactly the speed limit or, even worse, 5-10 below limit. The nerve! Perhaps you share my consternation and, like me, have sought ways to properly identify these individuals–you know, verbally honor the taxonomy of drivers. Typically this means blurting out “come on, shitface” or “you dumb motherfucker,” and that’s crass and low. We need class. We need style.
We need a new word. Sidebar, I cooked up what I thought was a clever synonym for Krav Maga recently–“Jew-Do”–but immediately felt guilty for doing so. Contrary to what the philistines on Urban Dictionary have contributed, my definition wasn’t racist. And yet, the truncation of “Jewish” was still wrong. But enough of that. Onto the pièce de résistance: the dickhead on the cellphone in the left lane, newly articulated.
Parx•ist [pahrk-sist]
—noun
1. a driver on the far left who’s going so slowly, he may as well be parked
—adjective
2. of the belief that you may drive on the far left so slowly, you may as well be parked
Usage:
The Parxist there is a threat to automotive freedoms everywhere.
You Parxist pig.
We were supposed to have a packed schedule tonight, an evening rich with bloggery that would begin with a riveting look at my theories on automobile traffic, then conclude with a brand new word for slow-ass motorists who insist on squatting in the fast lane. I’ve furthered scholarly research on driving, understand, but it’s going to have to wait. Sleep, instead, is what’s on order.
I’ve been averaging about five, five-and-a-half hours, and honestly the days have all been a blur. Time just seems to fly, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was Rip Van Winkling this shit with minimal sleep, the irony of which is delicious. I realize this probably shouldn’t qualify as a plus, though, and rather than celebrating I should be trying to hit the magical seven-and-a-half, eight mark.
But the dreams. The dreams! They’ve been especially vivid. I don’t know if this was the direct result of eating too late, or a movie trailer buried in my subconscious, or what, but two, three evenings ago, it was like Jerry Bruckheimer himself was directing my dreamscape. I was in a city, looking out from a storefront on the ground floor, when out of nowhere an overturned police cruiser landed with a crash in the street, skidding to a halt in a shower of sparks, wheels spinning slowly in the air. I peeked out of the store and looked to my right, only to behold the darkest sky, with inky black tornadoes touching down a few blocks away.
So I ran–through alleyways, behind houses, over fences, and all around me was this oppressive hum. The sky gave way to gray for a brief moment of reprieve, but then it darkened again, with more black tornadoes extending from the heavens. I had to escape, so I dropped into the sewers via storm drain. A few minutes later and a couple corridors deep, I bumped into some familiar faces. Or so I thought, because when I cast a flashlight upon them, their features were twisted, unfamiliar. Disturbing, yet strangely well choreographed, right? I normally refrain from horror flicks, but this? I would go back in a heartbeat.