Torture as Foreign Policy
I didn't attempt to get up early and beat the rush to the polls. I knew it was fruitless (getting up early, not beating the rush). Besides, I had already laid the foundation for being late to work today and I don't mind lines when extreme people watching is involved.
I drove my shiny new rental car a whole two blocks before I found myself nestled snugly in line between my hair dresser and a dog that was emptying the contents of its stomach onto the floor where I would be standing when his owner went into the voting booth. The storm trooper who lives in the apartment below me was also there and she's the only reason I knew which line to stand it.
I have a shiny new rental car because The General is undergoing my mechanic's version of Extreme Makeover. I wanted to buy a new used Volvo until my mechanic called me an idiot. He thinks with some love and care, The General is good for some time to come--even with used parts. However, The General needs so much work that, instead of fishing for the parts my mechanic needs, the junkyard literally sawed a Volvo in half and left it at his shop. I saw it last night when I dropped my car off.
"Yeah. I have your car to work on and a 2003 Mustang," my mechanic said as I pretended to drive the half a Volvo. "The parts for the Mustang are new and in boxes. The parts for The General are in the car you're sitting in. Which do you think I want to work on?"
"It's a good thing we're friends," I said.
In the meantime I have a tin-can colored and sized Chevy Cavalier to drive. Rental cars, in my mind, are separated from bowling shoes by like six degrees. On my way to work, I couldn't help thinking of the 3000 miles of worth of nose pickers who'd driven it before me.
I drove my shiny new rental car a whole two blocks before I found myself nestled snugly in line between my hair dresser and a dog that was emptying the contents of its stomach onto the floor where I would be standing when his owner went into the voting booth. The storm trooper who lives in the apartment below me was also there and she's the only reason I knew which line to stand it.
I have a shiny new rental car because The General is undergoing my mechanic's version of Extreme Makeover. I wanted to buy a new used Volvo until my mechanic called me an idiot. He thinks with some love and care, The General is good for some time to come--even with used parts. However, The General needs so much work that, instead of fishing for the parts my mechanic needs, the junkyard literally sawed a Volvo in half and left it at his shop. I saw it last night when I dropped my car off.
"Yeah. I have your car to work on and a 2003 Mustang," my mechanic said as I pretended to drive the half a Volvo. "The parts for the Mustang are new and in boxes. The parts for The General are in the car you're sitting in. Which do you think I want to work on?"
"It's a good thing we're friends," I said.
In the meantime I have a tin-can colored and sized Chevy Cavalier to drive. Rental cars, in my mind, are separated from bowling shoes by like six degrees. On my way to work, I couldn't help thinking of the 3000 miles of worth of nose pickers who'd driven it before me.