Terrible Analogies

While driving home this afternoon I witnessed a car accident on the freeway.  I was traveling 70mph in the number two lane.  A white BMW passed me going roughly 75 and was now about 30 feet in front of me in the fast (left hand) lane.  Ahead of us was an ocean of red brake lights.  Seeing this, everyone began to put on their brakes, slowing down to 55.  From my left a white Pontiac Grand Prix screamed past easily doing 90mph+, and slammed right into the rear end of the BMW like a computer-guided three ton sidewinder missile.  I didn’t see any hint of this Pontiac slowing down, nor hear any squeal from its tires.

It’s amazing what a car crash sounds like up close.  It’s difficult to appreciate the subtle nuances of the entire violent act without intimate firsthand experience.  The ugly crunch of metal, the spray of glass, the slowing down of time…it’s almost surrealistic, like you’re watching a movie; it seems strangely removed and far too real to be real.

I’m no stranger to shocking misfortunes.  I myself have been in a horrible car crash, and nearly lost my life rock climbing in Joshua Tree during a winter snowstorm, but these are distant memories.  I’d forgotten how the mind processes traumatic events.

The front of the Pontiac was crushed like a dirty pair of jeans balled up on the bathroom floor, paint flaked off the hood in large sheets exposing the dull metal beneath, and the front tires were splayed out like a tawdry centerfold pose.  The front windshield looked like somebody took an angry baseball bat to it.  I could see a smooth splash of blood on the opposite side of the glass.  From the impact, the BMW was thrust straight forward about 200 feet, but surprisingly it didn’t suffer nearly the amount of damage that the Pontiac has sustained.  The back bumper was pushed into the trunk, and something was leaking out from underneath, leaving behind a jagged liquid trail on the grooved pavement.

If I had left work a minute sooner (or later), and had chosen the fast lane instead of the number two lane, that BMW could have been me.  It’s crazy how fate/destiny/luck works.  With so many possible “what ifs”, one could go loopy thinking about such things.

I drove over to the local mall during lunch today, and as soon as I hit the parking lot I knew I had made a terrible mistake. As expected the traffic in the parking lot was bad, but that anticipated nightmare was compounded by the ingeniously positioned four-way stop near the entrance that, for whatever reason, people simply can not handle. When encountering such an obstacle it seems as if most people lose their minds and find it impossible to properly negotiate their way through.

Once past the intersection I had to find a parking spot. Thinking I’d be smart, I headed to the usually deserted upper deck of the parking structure, but was disheartened to discover that I wasn’t the only one taking this tact. It was so crowded that even the handi-capable people were parking up here and slowly ambling their way down the steep arterial decline that spills them to heart the mall.

Twenty minutes later I finally succeeded in locating a spot between a BMW with a fraternity sticker on the rear window, and what appeard to be a monster truck jacked up on steroids with mud flaps emblazoned with silhouettes of naked angel & devil women (what’s up with these anyway? Why do I see them all over nowadays?).

What happened next, as far as I can recall, was a blurry haze of frenzied shoppers, aggressive kiosk owners, dirty/greasy smells from the food court, overpriced crap far out of my budget, people standing in the middle of the aisles talking on their cell phones (are you idiots not aware of your surroundings?), hastily thrown together pop-up stores, cat calendars, near-subliminal advertising passively seeping through the overhead speakers, faded holiday decorations recycled from years past hanging in storefront windows, and an aching feeling in my bones that I’m simply being taking for another overhyped holiday joyride ride again.

And it seems, for yet another year, that I’m complaining about this.  Pitiful…

Forgive me…I just had to vent.  I think I’ll crack open a beer and settle down to a viewing of Inglorious Basterds.  That should cheer me up and set me right.

It always amazes me what we’re willing to do to ourselves all for the sake of vanity.  From gym rats to liposuction queens, more than a large chunk of the populace endures our fair share of physical pain and financial hardship just so we can keep up the appearance of eternal, unflinching youth.

Take, for example, this following video.  The technique is unique and interesting, but the questionable and cringeworthy bit at the 1:25 mark really makes me wonder why we do these sorts of things to ourselves.

Whatever makes you happy I guess, but when is enough enough? As the years fly by, is there such a thing as a “limit” for some people?

Imagine my shock and horror when, late one night, I happened upon an infomercial that featured one of the most unlikely of pitchmen.  But there we was, big as day and in full regalia, mohawk primped and perfect, gold chains around his neck, and sporting a “fresh out of the package” polo shirt.  Aghast, I sat with wide, unbelieving eyes at my television, unable to comprehend the full meaning of it all.  Mr. T, that beloved, illiterate icon of the 70′s and 80′s, had sold his soul to the infomercial gods, and was now hawking the latest in a long line of “as seen on TV” products that, according to the late Billy Mays, “no house and home can live without”.  

I don’t know what upset me more; the fact that Mr. T was wearing an uncharacteristic button-down Polo shirt, or that he’s apparently half Klingon.  

Mr. T, bought and paid for.  This is something that goes against the very nature that is B.A. Baracus.  Why, Mr. T…why?

Pitching the FlavorWave, which apparently can cook an entire turkey in 5 minutes, teach manners to your unruly children, and balance the national debt with the simple push of a button.

This miraculous product is brought to you by the good folks from the Cooking Club Of America, which is a scam of the highest order.  From what I’ve read, these grifters charge members outrageous fees for “life-time memberships”, taking hundreds of dollars from you without your consent.  Their aggressive, predatory practices are well recorded.  If I were you, I’d stay as far away from anything having to do with the Cooking Club Of America.  Unless, of course, you enjoy getting ripped off.

The traditional gold chains have been replaced with corporate marketing. Oh, Mr. T…look how far you’ve fallen.

And so, an icon falls.  Next time, I’d do a bit of research just to see who you’re getting into bed with.  Those shylocks from the Cooking Club Of America are nobody to mess with.  Mr. T., IANAL, but I highly suggest that you review your contact with these people to ensure that they’re not going to burn you in some way or fashion.  And get some better handlers…you know, somebody who has an ounce of sense and will steer you away from frauds like these.

I have no words today.

I feel as if I’ve hit my weekly quota of nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs.  I’m devoid of colorful metaphors, snappy catchphrases, and the odd melancholy retort.  Lacking for tales, fables, and non-sequiturs, devoid of secrets, revelations, narratives and parables, I find myself bound in a straightjacket of plain vanilla monotony, unable to slip these dull shackles of disinterest.  It pains me to have to concede that I have no points to make, opinions to inject, ideas to express, nor adventures to chronicle.  In light of this sad circumstance, please accept my sincere apologies for my current depth of mediocrity.

I hope that this cat video brings you more enjoyment than today’s post:

See ya on Monday, when we’ll cover a strange combination of classic literature and the ballad of Mr. T.