Hallelujah Hatrack

Living in Connecticut and being a coffee fiend you’d think that I’d be regionally obligated to drink the large-caramel-with-skim-milk-and-two-Equals from Dunkin Donuts every day, but I do not (and I hope that this does not cause me to lose my New England citizenship – although I’d be happy to be deported back to Baltimore or Phladelphia…).  I try to spread it around: Dunkin most of the time, Starbucks once in a while,

Green
Mountain when I’m at the gas station, and occasionally I slum it and hit the 7-11.

On the days that I go to 7-11 I always seem to run into the same group of ‘interesting’ people:

First, there is the lady with the black velour sweat jacket who, if you get the chance to stand behind her in line while she’s getting her small coffee (aka: two sips – why bother?) and pack of Newports, appears to have about a dozen cats.  She may want to invest in one of those two sided tape roll on a handle thingies and use it prior to leaving the house.  Or at least a nice cheap roll of masking tape if she needs to conserve money for smokes.

Next, there is the beyond-middle age guy who thinks he’s wicked (there’s a nice
New England colloquialism for you!) cool by wearing low rise jeans and quasi-hip T-shirts topped off with an oversized baseball cap with the board-flat brim to the side.  On his way in to the store this morning decided to spit (and look cool in doing so) and ended up with a loogie down the front of his shirt.  He then stood in the parking lot, holding up traffic, while he scraped the expectorate off with his car keys.  As far as I can tell, he likes a nice Slurpee in the morning.

Finally, there is the older lady in grandma jeans, night vision goggle sunglasses that are covering her spectacles, and the ubiquitous Marlboro (the red cowboy killers, not Lights) dangling from her lips.  She has worn a path between the lottery ticket counter and the outdoor garbage can and always follows the same pattern: buy a $5 scratch-off ticket, walk out the door, use the flat top of the trash can and use her fingernail to scratch the ticket, walk back in to collect winnings and/or buy another ticket.  Repeat.  The only deviation is if it’s raining and then she substitutes her steering wheel for the garbage can.  She is doing this regardless of whether I am there at 8:00am, 10:00am, or 4:00pm.  Apparently she makes a good living at this.

Now, since I see them all of the time they must see me.  Wonder what they’re blogging about…?

Lately I’ve been seeing a lot of weird stuff relating to cars and what people do to them.  There are cars that have been painted horrid colors.  There are the ubiquitous bumper stickers proclaiming the drivers’ Middle School aged kids’ apparent consistent ability to make the honor roll, peoples’ (usually strong) feelings – both pro and con – towards the present administration, or even stronger feelings in their affiliation with either Red Sox Nation or the ‘Evil Empire’.

For example, yesterday I saw all of the following:

-Driving near my home I was behind a car that had a license plate frame that read, “I’d rather be at a Clay Aiken concert!” and the plate actually said CLAYM-8, which I’m assuming reads “Claymate”.  Now, I was rooting for Clay over Reuben, but I’m pretty sure that I’m not willing to take it beyond calling in a few votes to 866-IDOLS-02 on a Tuesday evening – especially not this far…

-On the way to work yesterday I saw a Fiesta that had three big ladders strapped to the top.  On the highway.  Going about 35.  Call me crazy, but when the engineering gang at Ford designed this car I don’t think that they envisioned it doing the same work as a light duty pick up truck.

-In someone’s front yard I saw a Reliant K car (remember those?) that was for sale.  Aside from being a Reliant K car and probably predating my college degree – class of ’85 – I am unsure that anyone would want to purchase a car that is the same color as the teeth of the bus driver on

South
Park.

-Lastly, for a few miles I followed a purple Corolla that had a HUGE spoiler on the back.  Not the normal sized, yet unnecessary ones that are factory installed, or even one you might see on Dale Jr’s #8 on a Sunday afternoon, but one like you’d see on and Indy car at the Brickyard during Memorial Day weekend.  Does the driver really think that the old Corolla is going to get up to speeds so great that he’s going to need a spoiler to maintain tire-to-road contact.  I, for one, think not.  Oh, kickin’ rims on that car, too – but you could have probably figured that out by using context clues alone…

All I’m saying is, when it comes to you ride, keep it real.

And in case you’re wondering: it’s a graphite grey
Durango with a small sticker with the seal of the Cherokee Nation and a Philadelphia Eagles license plate frame.