Ying's 15 Minutes

*carrie8820:* you should write about how we went to starbucks in your blog
*BathingInEggnog:* write it for me, im not in the mood
*carrie8820:* okay
*carrie8820:* copy and paste this:
*carrie8820:* tonight, a very special night, i joined my beautiful chinese woman friend for a lovely getogether at starbucks.
*carrie8820:* as we covered a series of topic discussions, being IB nerds, we then proceeded to talk about our teachers and their private lives. by private lives…. i mean sex lives. yes being the lonely deprived IB nerds that we were, we engaged in a lovely conversation about how gleason’s husband is whipped, mcgonagel was hairy, and dr y is a pi-yimp
*carrie8820:* i love ying more than any other girl i know, besides my mom, yes ying is cooler than all of you!
*carrie8820:* BIAAAAAA

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That is the last time I trust an Asian to write for me.

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Vroooooooom

Last week, my parents made up for my half year of driving their baby blue 1974 Volkswagen Beetle – a rusty metal death chariot less powerful than most standard lawnmowers – with the purchase of a new car to relieve my reservations over facing the upcoming summer without air conditioning. Or a radio. Or a working second gear. Or any hint of safety features. Yes, this one has all that and more.

Now sitting in the deep recesses of my tiny little garage is my 1991 Dodge Stealth ES, refracting the gleam of the solitary light bulb on the ceiling with its coat of newly polished Scarlet Red and humming like a sexually aroused lion upon ignition. I must admit, though, that moving up from 55 horsepower to 222 gives quite the identity complex to my automobile.

For a little short of a year, I carted around town in a dandy car. Upon realizing that most serious car owners named their trusty companions, I decided that my Beetle’s name should be Herbie, after the famed number 53 in the 1969 Disney film, _The Love Bug_. At least, that was what people called it. If you’re me, you would call it Herb; if you’re sending it mail, you would address it to Herbert Aluicious Peterson III. What made Herb so cool, though, was the fact that it was actually a she. You couldn’t drive her without thinking such. The way she shifted, the way she accelerated, everything about her down to color made the car effeminate. I don’t have any qualms over driving a lovely lady, either – she was the best thing in my life.

But like in any normal relationship, we ran into some difficulties. She was old. She wasn’t as beautiful as she once was. Call me shallow, but I was looking for someone just a little more satisfying. In my defense though, she wasn’t playing nice anyway. Every now and then, just to spite me, Herb would grind going into second or refuse to turn on her headlights. Like in the late days of Chrissy Snow on Three’s Company, things were getting rough. Things had to change.

Then, he came into my life. Now I’m not gay, mind you, but there’s just something about a gentleman of a car that can steal away my heart in mere seconds, much like the way my perpetual love can be stolen with a nice piece of fresh Grouper. Herb and I parted on good terms; she sits as I type in the other side of the garage awaiting the restoration that I promised I would give to her when I have the money. And I totally plan on keeping my promise, just as soon as I win the lottery.

After deciding that the Stealth drove like a man – not a rough, domineering man, but rather a sincere, smooth operator – came the task of choosing a name for him. After conferring with people in the past week and thinking on my own, I’ve narrowed the list down:

Ringo. Recently, I’ve been more and more into the Beatles than ever, which is apparently a stage that most civil people go through. But to name a car after any of the other members of the fab four would be sort of lacking in exoticism. John? No. Paul? No. George? Please, no. Only a queer would name his car George. So I settled on Ringo, the coolest living Beatle.

Jimmy. What would a list of possible names be without payment of homage to Mr. Jimmy Buffett, King of Somewhere Hot? Though this one is, too, a bit plain, it holds more sway than Ringo, simply because of color. Ringo has always been to me sort of a black and white kind of guy, while Jimmy is a spectrum of excitement. I have to admit, too, that a Red Dodge Stealth would be quite excellent in the parking lots of Buffett shows when I am of age.

Holden. What better way is there to compare the standard awkward teenage blues in my life to the human experience than to name the one best companion in your life after Salinger’s cynical and depressed Holden Caulfield? It’s also fancy and quazi-irregular, which puts some points in Holden’s column.

Jeff. For some reason, Doug suggested this. I kind of like it.

 

 

 

Suggest something. These ideas suck.

 

 

 

Other than that, my creativity well has run dry. If ever girls change their minds about me and I somehow get one to have my kid, I hope she has an extensive list of possibilities for names, because otherwise we won’t give him one and he’ll be referred to by social security number for his entire life.

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Healthy Criticism

Lately, I was conversing with my brother Ian, one of the few people in my life who bothers to challenge me with important and intellectual thought, and we noticed a phenomenon that sneaked up on the mindless sheep of American society seemingly overnight. You’d have to be blind to not see it, but at the same time, you’d have to be painstakingly cynical to let it bother you. Ladies and gentlemen, a cynic has entered the building.

Of course, it’s the sudden fad to put those silly little magnetic ribbons on the back of your car. I don’t intend to challenge the messages conveyed by such magnets, though I would like to point out that when you slap one of those babies on the back of your automobile, you look like a mindless dolt of a follower of pop culture. Furthermore, if you have more than one on your trunk, you look even sillier. But perhaps the most self-degrading aspect of these Liberty and Freedom Magnets is the fact that a good percentage of persons who dare to muck up their otherwise perfectly good cars by putting these absurd things on sideways. Honestly, how educated do you come off if you cannot simply align your ribbon correctly?

Sigh. Way to go, general public. Glad to know they gave you licenses.

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I like my odds

I said it last year at this time, and I’m saying it again: The Seattle Seahawks are America’s new team.

See you in the Superbowl.

—
EDIT: Never listen to me.

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Skunked again

I was quite hungry, indeed. I hadn’t eaten since dinner last night, which consisted of two unaccompanied hot dogs. So, about fifteen minutes ago I decided that I would overcome my laziness and general apathy toward actually making something to eat and make a lousy sandwich out of the (still) leftover Christmas ham.

I headed for the bread box and, upon arrival it seemed that the Gods of good sandwich fortune were smiling down upon me because, much to my surprise, there was bread left over from my long winter break. As luck had it, I took the last two slices and went on my way.

Then, I decided that I needed a condiment of some sort. Rather than go through the trouble of pulling a knife out of the drawer and yanking the mayonnaise from the inside door of the refrigerator, I opted for the item in the fridge that necessitated the least work on my part, the often neglected French’s yellow mustard. As I picked it up, though, I knew it was on its last leg, headed to that picnic basket in the dim yellow condiment sky. Though it took a little elbow grease, I was able to successfully coat both slices of my bread, finishing just as the noble little bottle of tangy goodness kicked the bucket. With my head held high, I continued to make the sandwich with the last remnants of Christmastide cuisine.

Now then, I found a couple slices of cheese – the only item excessively bountiful in the Peterson kitchen – and slapped them onto the sandwich. So far, the art of sandwich making was continuing swimmingly. Or so I thought.

I had not taken into account that Christmas was a full 10 days ago. As such, the Honeybaked Ham which sat in the dark recesses of its chilly refrigerated coffin was in the poorest of shape, and had begun to grow crystals of some sort. I was heartbroken.

Still, though, that was the best Swiss cheese and mustard sandwich I’ve ever eaten.

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One town that won't let you down

Lately, my parents have been talking about going up to Chicago to visit some family friends who are graduating from college. I’ll have to figure out my exam schedule (as we’re going in the middle of May). Though I’ve only been once, I liked it very much.

What first struck me about Chicago was the fact that in the restrooms at Midway International, the walls of the stalls went all the way down to the floor and the doors lacked those gaping cracks where the hinges secured them to the vertical sections of the cubicle.

I knew right then that Chicago was, indeed, my kind of town.

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