I hate my car…it’s just like commuting in Apollo 13. It’s got a hundred switches and dials and there’s only a 50/50 chance any of them will work on a given day. Last night I ripped off the decayed leather steering wheel cover… the one that sticks to my hands and bugs me every summer. I was picking all the stitches out with a knife, when the neighbor kids all piled in the back seat. They wanted to listen to the radio, so I turned it up loud, and we opened the windows to let some of the twang out. (I live in a kinda loud, kinda rap-hip-hop-motown kinda neighborhood.)
“Oh! I know who this is! It’s that bald guy with the really big concerts!”
“No, you’re thinking of Garth Brooks.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“This is Buck Owens. He’s from Bakersfield”
“Where’s that?”
“Part way to L.A.”
…and then they wrestled around some more on the backseat ’til one got a nosebleed and we all had to stop.
