Six hours of sleep, one full day at work, two cocktails, and half a steak later, here I am, in the early hours of the morning, with a singular purpose: to regale you with vital information, a full four paragraphs of it, published electronically using powerful modern technologies. I’ve got cars on the brain, specifically my car, which shit the bed again on Monday in a stunning encore performance. I’m thinking we should make this a regular monthly event, and if the wheels fail to fall off in February, there may be disappointment. Tears, even.
Third time’s a charm, apparently, because I’m ponying up for the real repair job this time, rather than the band-aid fix I’ve purchased during prior episodes. It’s going to cost substantially more, but it’s not the expense I’m considering right now. There’s a far deeper matter at play here, I believe, and it’s the question of loyalty and the benefits thereof. Let’s be honest here. It’s an inanimate object–doubly so, I suppose, when it just sits there in a miserable pile in a parking lot–and to pledge fealty to an automobile is ludicrous.
But because it’s been with me since Chicago, simply by virtue of attendance, it’s been getting pass after free pass. It really doesn’t make sense, especially when the goddamn loaner I’ve been driving, ostensibly a vehicle regularly maintained by the dealership, is prone to locking and unlocking its doors without provocation. Current high score is five times. Is it haunted, perhaps by the bewildered soul of a previous Saab owner? Or is it simply foreshadowing issues to come for my own car?
Staying the course would be a gross example of gambler’s fallacy, and yet this is precisely the route I’ve chosen, unclear of any real benefit. I mean, it’s not like the car will suddenly become aware that I’ve resisted pawning it off at the nearest Carmax, then proceed to drive better. The best it can do is not break! And yet I’m still here. At the table. A 1 on a scale that spans from golden retriever to mercenary. Maybe it’s time to go Hessian.
There is a place we seldom visit, a far, rare country where vulgarity is surprisingly absent. Swear words are not only missing, in fact, but actively discouraged, and instead there are clean consonants, with clean vowels accompanying them, and it’s a wholly different voice. Wholesome, I’d like to think. You may recall how I needed to construct a commencement prayer recently and here, on the other side of the ordeal, I thought I’d share the end product with you.
Our heavenly Father,
be with us today.
Be with us now,
in this proud moment,
and grant us clarity.
Help us to remember
those who have carried us,
to give thanks for each step and shoulder.
Be with us here, Lord,
in this crossing,
with our hands in Yours.
Meet us in this place,
where we honor our gifts
by giving in turn.
And be with us tomorrow,
on those uncertain shores,
confident in Your plan.
Where we are rich in knowledge, help us to listen.
Where we want not for comfort, teach us sacrifice.
And when we have lost our way, lead us back to our calling.
May we depart as stewards of intellect,
humbled by the promise,
mindful of the privilege,
and thankful for Your abundance.
Amen.
Here’s my postmortem. It’s about 30% shorter than the last commencement prayer, though I probably should’ve shaved off another 10%-15%. The structure could’ve been rearranged to flow better. I’m happy with “stewards of intellect” because it’s a digestible idea and, more importantly, Google shows zero results for the phrase. Above all, I’m amazed the thing made it through the vetting process unscathed. This is a secular university, after all, and I’m fully aware the text may have offended people.
Some may have been doubly offended, I imagine. You know the type. You may have even taken a class or two with one of them. Thin as a rail, fully encased in black yarn, ghoulishly light complexion: a po mo major (whatever a “major” can even mean, anyway) with a Nietzsche poster (basically a sheet of black paper) tacked directly above the bed. For these graduates, I realize I may as well have been referencing Harry Potter or Yoda–and his name also we praise, hmmmm?
Honestly this zone of clean language is getting uncomfortable, probably for all parties involved, so consider how I shouted “Fuck!” on Sunday. In a parked car. In front of a church. Because I had forgotten my Bible at home. After you do the math there, I trust you’ll find we’re home again. I should also remind you the prayer ended three paragraphs ago, by the way.
Whatever allure the cineplex once held evaporated in a foul cloud of halitosis a few weeks ago when, during a packed late-night showing of Avatar, fortune saw fit to deposit a rancid woman to my immediate left for three hours. Prior to her arrival, a country man with a rich country drawl had settled into the same row of chairs and, after viewing a few pre-trailer commercials, threatened to pull out his gun, should any additional advertisements appear. The screen obviously didn’t hear this because it promptly played two more spots, but lo! No firearm was procured, for fortune did stay his hand.
I had chosen this showtime with the Cat to avoid a repeat of our Watchmen experience, wherein a sunny Saturday morning was spent in a dark, nerd-filled theater. Nighttime would be far more acceptable for watching a movie, went the reasoning, and what’s more a Sunday evening, so very close to the workweek, would thin out the crowds. How wrong I was on both counts. All of God’s children apparently decided on the same showtime, and wherever the threat of gun violence didn’t punctuate my vicinity, there wafted that sickly sweet scent. Imagine, if you will, a shit-greased strawberry patch.
The 3D glasses were enough for me–indeed, an assault on my corneas may have been the very purpose of the ticket. But the added smell-o-vision was too much, and when Stinkerella began popping candy every few minutes, which necessitated opening her mouth, the situation quickly deteriorated. Every crinkle of cellophane, a death knell for the nostrils. Every death knell for the nostrils, a prelude to more unwrapping.
And the film itself? Pretty, preachy, and vapid. I’m done with theaters for the time being. Home theater is a different matter, however, and here lies the broken vow I mentioned on Tuesday. Back in February, I had pledged to shun Blu-ray. I had no need for high-def, after all, because who really cares for stunning visual fidelity and unbelievably crisp audio? Ratatouille was the title that did me in and now I find my disposable income magically transforming into Blu-ray discs. It’s a strange alchemy.