Thursday, November 18, 2010

Is that a giant car in your driveway, or do you actually have a penis?

I've always found it strange that some people pump so much money into their personal mode of transport. When my father was courting my mother, her neighbours thought she had four boyfriends because he would always pick her up in one of his four luxury cars (which I believe were a BMW, a Merserati with suede interiors and a mahogany dashboard, a Datsun sports car with a stereo on the ceiling and something else I can't remember). I've been on dates with men who've boasted about their big, black, fast... cars. They didn't get very far into my pants because I just assumed their vehicle was a sustitute for an important piece of anatomy. May also be why I am currently in a long-term relationship with the owner of a beat-up, rusty 1988 station wagon that sounds like it has the car equivalent of asthma.

Realistically, a car is essentially a metal husk that will get you from point A to point B. Admittedly, some will get you there in considerably less time, and some lemons won't get you there at all (and the question may be why the fuck you are driving a piece of fruit). Yet car makers rake in the big bucks by giving people loads of add-ons: heated seats, in-built LCD screens for your bratty offspring, large cupholders for fatties and CD players that could quite possibly store your entire collection. MacDonald's tries to up-sell, and they get labeled as an evil corporation trying to make our babies fat. A car company offers you metallic paint for an extra $2K and it's the best shit ever. It's all about owning the most obscene, flashiest, shiniest toy on the block.

I don't own a car (after seven years of driving), but have always figured that my first car would probably be a hideously orange Gemini from the eighties with torn vinyl upholstery. And I'm okay with that. On my way to work the other day, I walked past a beige car. Yes, a BEIGE car.Who's up for an inconspicuous, plain car? Oh, baby. Me first.

* This blog post will probably bite me on the ass when I become a thirty-year-old yuppie with a sixties Pontiac.