Throughout life, we all go through various stages. Be they natural human progressions like learning to walk or professional progressions like landing that big job with the fancy corner office, these stages are extremely relevant to one simple thing – parking. And while the type of parking varies as life plunges on, the issue always remains the same. Each one of us yearns for that parking space we don’t have currently.

I realize that this idea is just a matter of the grass being greener on the other side, but it’s quite telling to see how this simple science of temporary spatial occupation evolves as we grow.

When you’re little, you can’t walk. For whatever reason, the good Lord didn’t bless us with thunder thighs out of the womb, so we must acquiesce to the whims of our parents and park ourselves wherever they see fit. This is all well and good until you figure out that there is more to this world than the juvenile jail of your crib. You want a new parking space – a better space to your liking, perhaps with a view of WGN and Bozo the Clown and 24 hour security in the form of your favorite blanket.

Then, you grow to be a child of school going age. You’re driven to school every day until you see the sweet parking space the fifth graders have for their bikes. You want that freedom. And wouldn’t you know it, you are given the chance at a new parking space when your folks deem you old enough. Sure, it’s a bit cramped, but when you can ride your bicycle to school yourself, who cares? You have your own parking space which says that you are older and more mature.

However, these faux parking spaces, as necessary and wonderful as they may be can never compare to the thrill of having an actual parking space for, you know, an automobile. And to consolidate the boundless task of describing the individual steps that lead to the pinnacle of parking satisfaction, I will summarize every man’s professional goal in life: Like The Jeffersons, move on up.

You spend your entire working life climbing the ladder, jumping through the hoops, and moving ever-so-closer to the prized parking space right in front of the building. It goes like this until, through your immeasurable hard work and dedication, you can finally pull into that space in the morning without fear of crossing an executive type or incurring a fine from the Parking Gods whose power is matched only by the mighty Zeus or Athena.

But what then?

You get tired; you slow down.

You slow down all the way to the point where you look back on your lifelong journey from parking garage to parking garage, from meter to meter, and you suddenly ask yourself why you did it.

Was it for the fame? Was it for the glory? Was it for the money? No, it was only for that one parking space.

Maybe I should start riding the bus.

If you know me, you know that I have a lot of weird, quirky pet peeves. I can’t eat popcorn. I like to set the volume on radios to increments of five, since prime numbers mortify me. And, of course, I don’t like people who turn around in my driveway.

I live one block east of a moderately busy intersection. It seems that if you want to go through this intersection, you have to be a complete idiot, since it seems like the vast majority of cars that pass through have to turn onto my street, maneuver their automobiles between the mess of cars that’s already in my driveway (At last count, we have five cars. This is unacceptable.), and back out. I normally wouldn’t have a problem with this, but lately people are getting more and more courageous.

People will pull into my driveway even when I’m in the driveway. If I’m taking the dog out or getting the mail, they completely disregard me and pull their two ton pickups right up onto my property. It’s especially bad when I get in my car to back out of the driveway and go about my mundane travels, and I can’t because some thoughtless old cow has proceeded to impede my ability to travel in favor of her own ignorance when it comes to basic navigation. It really ticks me off.

Therefore, I have lately been a master of the three point turn, such that folks would not see me in the same light that I see the dolts who rumble into my driveway multiple times every hour. And, my friends, I encourage you to do the same.

Yours,
Casey

I’m not writing this as a sermon in vehicular safety; I think that wearing a seat belt is a choice and that people should be able to logically decide what’s best for them, but why not put on a seat belt? Whenever I drive, I make sure everyone in my car is buckled up. This isn’t because of my fear of getting tickets or being fined, but rather because I legitimately care about the safety of my friends.

Anyhow, they treat this like an epidemic. It’s as if the police and media think that people don’t put on their seat belts habitually, but I can’t recall a single person I know who never wears a seat belt. I don’t know, maybe it’s because I only associate with quasi smart and responsible people.

I guess my point here is that if you don’t wear a seat belt when you ride or dive a car, you are a fool. Thus ends my profound (yet obvious) observation of the evening.

From what I saw yesterday, the current residents had a few big, burly black men taking all of their stuff and putting it in some big trucks. Then drove up a woman of about 55 and what I can only assume is her daughter, who looks to be in her early to mid 20s. I could be wrong about these ages, though, as I spent the majority of the day like the neighbor who lived across the street from Sam and Darren in Bewitched – peeking out of my blinds to try to put together some idea of who these people are.

Anyhow, they’re moving in now and some bald young fellow just pulled up in a light blue old-person-sedan-type car. If he is my competition for the love of this fair maiden, I’ve totally got him beat. A Ford Focus could outsex a Mercury Grand Marquis any day.

First, I give the car a hose down. Then comes the standard wash (I’ve used a variety of products for this, but I’ve found that most of them are pretty much the same. So, I use Zip Wax car wash formula by Turtle Wax.). I hit the roof of the car, go down to the rear window and work on the windshield. Lather and rinse. Then, I get the sides, one by one, and finally scrub the hood and trunk area. Lather and rinse. Then I dry, windows first and body second. I then use Meguiar’s Back to Black formula on my plastic car parts, door handles and the rear view mirror cases. Next, I use Turtle Wax’s specialized automotive window cleaner on all glass of my car, inside and outside. Then, I go for Turtle Wax’s wheel shine formula on each of my wheels, followed by tire gloss of the same brand. Finally, I go to the interior and use Armor All on every inch of the cabin. This rubdown is followed by a thorough vacuuming of all parts of the interior (trunk space included!).

I know that last paragraph was long and monotonous to read. I just want to convey to you the insane amount of work I put into my car today in hopes that the next sentence will have a profound effect on you and that you understand my extreme anger and agony:

It is now raining.

Sorry, P-Daddy, but I’ve got a hankerin’ for some good old fashioned judging. Today’s defendant: the 60% of drivers out there who refuse to use their turn signal. It’s a real shame to drive down the boulevard to have a 2006 Ford Mustang cut right in front of you with not so much as a glimmer of the blinker. A nice car like that doesn’t have turn signals? I’d take that automobile right back to the shop so one of the helpful associates can take a look at the broken taillights.

I can see the argument against using turn signals when changing lanes – it’s not the law. Actually, my driving deviant friend, it is. The government here in the Sunshine State fixed this problem a while back. Observe:

“You must use hand signals or directional signals to show that you are about to turn. Turn signals are required when changing lanes or overtaking a vehicle.” (Courtesy of the Florida Driver’s Handbook)

Now, if your carelessness was actually a product of being misinformed, consider yourself informed. If your carelessness is a product of your disregard for anyone and everyone around you, I’d like to propose a hypothetical scenario.

You’re driving along. A Mac truck is in the lane ahead of you. A Mercedes merges into the gap created between you and Trucker Pete without using its turn signal. You narrowly evade death by swerving into the emptiness created by the Mercedes’ old lane. And while you may be safe, you are peeved. You spew angry words of hate, the likes of which your mother would never have uttered within 100 yards of her kitchen, and a fire of hatred builds in your heart. Mr. Mercedes speeds along his merry affluent way, while you’re left with an ulcer the size of a watermelon caused by the stress of the incident. Don’t you think the Mercedes could have used a blinker so that you would have ample time to either create room for the merge or speed up and ruin his day? And if he can go ahead and hit that lever on the side of the steering column, don’t you think you could return the favor?

I’m just saying that once everybody starts to drive in a uniform manner, more people will live longer as a result of reduced accidents and far fewer stress-induced sicknesses.

But now it’s time to usher in a new generation of Peterson pimpage: Now, instead of seeing me cruising at the speed of light in a pretty red car that breaks down every few weeks, you can see me accelerating more responsibly in a car with four doors. Oh well, that just means I’ll have a backseat wherein I can seduce women. Lots of them. After all, who wouldn’t fall for me when they see me rolling along in a 2005 Ford Focus ZX4 SE?

My father asked me whether in my music interests I’ve come across Sir Paul’s first album, dubbed “The Cherry Album,” but more formally “McCartney.” I knew of the album and its cover art, but I had yet to listen to it fully. After obtaining it when I got home, I went to bed.

This morning, I burned a copy of the CD before I ran out of the door at 6:10 to initiate the carpool. I walked out to Ringo feeling refreshed and ready to start my journey to school (which, by the way, I only have to do once more this week, thanks to AP exams). I got in my car, put Sir Paul in, and was on my way.

However, the CD player spit out Paul like he was a giant bowl of that greenish marshmallow stuff my mother makes on major holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. After picking up Angus and fiddling with my testy stereo for a few minutes, we noticed that there was a plume of smoke spewing from the head unit. I assumed that this was not a good sign, so I took off the faceplate and hoped that the short would not spark and cause a fire.

Now I know where my first few paychecks are going.

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:

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*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.

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*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.

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*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.

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

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*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.