Fat Guy in a Lime Green Mini

Here is another post from the archives of my old life in Detroit.

Despite its many shortfalls, the metropolitan Detroit area is still the automobile capital of the universe. No one walks here, it's some kind of unwritten law - thou shall not walk. Ever. We all bask in our obesity while sipping some high calorie coffee concoction and discussing the next low carbohydrate diet craze while driving to Costco to purchase institutional-size boxes of cereal and packages of irradiated lettuce that will not rot for weeks. A friend, who is a Costco aficionado, gave me a head of romaine lettuce that remained inexplicably green in my fridge for almost two months.

In just about any social circle in Metro Detroit, there is bound to be at least a handful of people who are employed in some car related field. I imagine it's like LA, where everybody is working on a movie, with the exception that our movies are glove box videos and the work comprises of far less schmoozing and a whole lot more doing, no offence to those who keep the rest of us wishing we were someone else, giving us just enough to keep us afloat.

Detroit is gritty, dirty and, as the show biz people would say, "a has been." People drive there, and then they quickly drive away. Not me. I go there for no reason and I linger around. There is an immense amount of beauty in a city that once was the Paris of the west, but now it's more like Beirut than Paris.

On my way downtown today, I was being tailgated by a very large man - Captain Incredible large - lodged in a lime green mini. Saying he was merely riding would not accurately convey the scene. The man was basically squeezed into this tiny car, driving erratically down I-94. It took me a while to realize that the steering wheel in his car was on the right side, because his body mass pretty much occupied the width of the car.

Normally I wouldn't do this, but I slowed down to get a better look. In fact, I pulled out my camera and took a picture. Driving such a small car, make that a small old car, is almost like heresy in this gas-guzzling, SUV -oving metropolis. People here buy the largest vehicle available, regardless of their need for things like towing capacity, cargo space or the ability to climb the Great Wall of China. Most people driving these mega machines are men in suits and women with children, neither of which will have any immediate need for a power wench or to tow a nuclear submarine. That's why they make SUVs with leather interiors and heated seats, which is precisely what you will need on your next safari adventure to Costco.

I have a profound hatred for those driving the extra large cars for no reason. I can understand if you need a huge van because you make countertops for a living, or if you work in an adult care facility, and need it to take the patients to their weekly visit to Kmart. I don't mind that at all, especially since I don't shop at Kmart. By all means have at it.

What does severely piss me off are those men (and they usually are men) who drive a Hummer. The first thought that pops into my mind is that the poor sap must have a small penis. That, and the fact that said vehicle monstrosity is called a Hummer, is almost funny enough to make me forget that I want that person to hit the first available utility pole with that ridiculous automobile.

While the occasional Corvette can be seen on our roads, in the brief few weeks that comprise the Michigan summer, seeing an old small car have at it with our suburban attack vehicles is rather unusual. Made me think of that Budweiser commercial, in which they salute people such as Mr. Pickled Pig's Feet eater. For whatever reason, if size does matter, I'm sure the fat guy in the lime green mini had a huge penis.

195,870 - A eulogy to my Saturn

Before moving to the east coast, I lived in the metropolitan Detroit area, which you may recognize as a place that is absurdly enamored of the motor vehicle. I wrote this about a year ago or so, when I had to give up my beloved Saturn.

"There is nothing like driving, feeling one with the car. The wheels become an extension of your legs and the steering wheel molds into your hands. When the seats cradle your body just so, and you feel part human, part machine. You feel invincible.

I dislike everything about owning a vehicle, other than the fact it's there when I feel like or, as is the case more often, when I need to drive it somewhere. I hate the fact that nothing in the automobile world has any kind of permanence. The car won't stay clean, or fixed, or filled with fuel, or cease to be a money pit. Once it's paid for, things start to break, so, no matter what, car ownership requires a steady supply of cash.

I just got a car to replace my old car, the car I swore I would drive until pieces started to fall off, and even then, only if the pieces jumping ship were vital to the vehicle's operation. I would not concern myself with a missing bumper, or a dangling side mirror. I would even consider a door held by rope and the power of prayer. I really, really wanted to drive my car to 250,000. It just seemed like such a nice, round number: a quarter of a million. Regardless of the unit of measurement, a quarter of a million always seems like a lot, whether in car miles or lottery jackpots.

I was one with my car. I bought it so that I could learn how to drive a stick shift. All my previous attempts at learning ended badly, so I thought that by buying a stick shift car, I would have no choice but to learn. And learn I did. After a few weeks of careful route planning, taking great care to avoid any hills or even slight inclines, I mastered the clutch. There was no stopping me. I drove and I drove. Drove to Alabama trying to run away from the rain threatening our spring hiking trip, drove to New York City many times, in my periodically pilgrimage of reminding myself why I keep on living. Drove to Chicago to see friends, and to the Upper Peninsula to get away. Together we pretty much covered the Eastern US. It felt like betraying an old friend when I drove it to the Charity Motors lot, having to use the gear-shifter in place of the non-existing breaks. After all we've done together, it came down to this: a tax deduction before the law changed and made it less attractive to donate old clunkers to charity.

There is something profoundly sexy about driving a stick shift. All the men I've dated drove stick shifts, with the exception of the man I married. I later thought him how, and now that's what he drives. He doesn't feel as strongly about it as I do, but I usually don't expect people to share my opinions.

My new car is not sexy. I would go out on a limb, as say it has no soul, only a good sound system. Due to budgetary constraints, we bought Scott's mom's car. They weren't using it, so it seemed silly to go out and buy a new car when we could actually pay cash for this one. In exchange for the convenience and cash solvency, I now drive a beige, four door, automatic sedan. Sure the car doesn't spew out black smoke from the tail pipe, or make so much noise that it was difficult to concentrate in the actual act of driving. Any yes, the stereo is great and all the speakers work. While the car doesn't have any soul, I can play music loud enough to pretend it does."

Coo-Coo for Cocoa Puffs

My favorite mode of transportation in the city is my own two feet. It's never dull to walk around New York City. Cold yes. Dull, never. Whether you are just going around the corner for some coffee, or are hopelessly lost trying to find a very obscure address where the street numbers make no sense, lots of unexpected entertainment can be easily observed.

The other day, for example, walking downtown on 7th Avenue, starting somewhere in the 30s and making his way well beyond the teens, a well dressed man was walking with a shovel slung over his shoulder. From the handle of this shovel, between his back and the "scoopy" part of the digging implement, hung a Barney's shopping bag. What was puzzling to me was that the bag was not all crumpled and old. No, this bag had just been handed over the retail counter in very recent history, making what appeared to be its maiden voyage.

The shovel itself was also intriguing. It wasn't a snow shovel, which would sort of make some sense, giving the record snowfall of last weekend. However, this one was a heavy duty, big hole-digging shovel. The one you'd probably choose if you were, well, going to be digging a trench, or a pool or some other type of whatever which requires displacing a fair amount of soil. The shovel in question also looked like it had been used for this purpose in the past because it was rusty and dirty.

The man didn't seem to be too familiar with the implications of walking with a shovel slung over his shoulder. He was easily distracted by store window displays and would turn, willy-nilly to look at the (presumably) shiny things that caught his eye - while making fellow pedestrians duck for cover as the shovel nearly clobbered several passers-by in the head.

But what I really wanted to know was what came first: was it the shovel or was Barney's? And do they allow large hand tools in the store, anyway?