Fear and Loathing in the Trunk
Hunter S. Thompson is dead.
Old news. Solidified by Tom Wolfe's obituary in the Wall Street Journal.
If I could know I was going to die with "The 20th Century's Greatest Comic Writer" as the announcement of my departure a few days later, perhaps I'd contemplate death more often.
But with that would come worries. Worries are not me.
Thanksgiving is a busy time for me. I spent yesterday afternoon emptying the trunk of the Town Car of recyclables. The elder generation of Gluds just wouldn't understand the accumulation of empty Killian's and Heineken bottles, Bud Light 40s ('cause everyone goes slumming sometimes...), quarter barrels, cases of wine, boxes of cigars, and other assorted spent paraphernalia piling up in the back of my car. It wouldn't do well to try and explain away any possible below-average grades in the coming months after sharing that spectacle, believe me.
Now, by "emptying the trunk of the Town Car," you may get some vision of something like this:
Go ahead, laugh it up.
You think emptying the trunk of a 2003 Town Car would be a spectacle? No more than if I was giving you your luggage, and I'm not a chauffeur.
Try this instead:
Emptying this is no chore, it's a journey. Perhaps, even, "a savage journey into the heart of the American dream"?! And here you were wondering what the Hunter S. Thompson bit was about.
A quick scan of the internet will reveal that the cargo capacity for the newer Town Cars (like the first one pictured) is 20.6 cubic feet. Not bad, but a definite sacrifice compared to 1989. What was the cargo capacity of 1989 (pictured above, not mine, but the same model)?
Try finding that, I dare you. If you do find it, the figures are at best estimates made by the world's top scientists or bold-faced lies (and you know better than to trust those phonies on the internet... nevermind). My point is, no one knows for sure, and many men have died trying to find out.
I'm no such fool. I'll drive the beast, but you won't catch me messing around back there.
The front part where the light touches when the trunk is open, that's where it's safe to wander. It's where the contraband is stored and, more importantly, the only place where it can be seen. That's the limits of my venture. I'm a young man, and quite independent, but there are some things you learn from your elders that you don't forget... ever.
()
Before I left for college a few years back, my dad and I spent the night in the cabin my grandfather built on the car's bumper back in '91. People always asked him "But what if you get rear-ended?" To this day, the cabin's still there. Anyway, this was a last night of bonding, and it went really well. I knew the car; I knew to buckle up, get those periodic oil changes, check the tire pressure (7.4 x 10^4 PSI), and not to trust the gas gauge but definitely heed the "Low Fuel" warning light. Dad was ready to let go, ready to trust me. But he had one more lesson to teach. We climbed up the back of the car using grappling hooks and once we reached the summit, or the edge of the trunk, dad popped that sucker and showed me the rear kingdom that awaited.
Everything the light touches...
Yeah, I know, "Now just wait a minute..." I saw the movie too, okay? And while I wish my dad was Mufasa, he's a little less powerful with words and doesn't have the hair. He really just put it like this:
"Son, this is all yours. Except for that dark area over there."
He pointed to the netherworld, the rear portion of the trunk where the light didn't just end, but was absorbed as if the car was feeding it into its black-hole bowels. "Son, don't go there."
()
So, yeah, maybe I do "play it safe." Then again, to this day no one's asked to borrow my car to help move. This is rather odd, because in the forward (safe) section alone there's enough room to shelter the entire dormitory during a storm, if only they'd man up and get in. Four guys who didn't want to register their cars with campus security park back there, for Pete's sake! Like most '89 Town Car owners, I've had to field proposals for mega malls and other constructions: "Don't get me wrong, son, I've seen land like that before, I'm from Texas! Didn't you see Giant? I mean, I've seen land like that before! But land like that on wheels?! GAWWW-LLEE! It's historic, son, historic!"
Maybe someday, but the world wasn't ready in '89, and I still don't think it's ready. I think most would actually rather be blown away by a hurricane than venture into the trunk of my '89 Lincoln Town Car. Administration seems to agree, as they flatly rejected my proposal last year to alter the emergency plans.
Anyways, that was yesterday. I spent today resting. So all of you with your "Michael, I'm telling you, they were ninja." voicemails trying to get me to come watch The Octagon can just buzz off. Chuck Norris? I just cleaned out the trunk of an '89 Lincoln Town Car and you're trying to tell me I got to look to Walker, Texas Ranger for inspiration? Bronze souls, the lot of you.
Old news. Solidified by Tom Wolfe's obituary in the Wall Street Journal.
If I could know I was going to die with "The 20th Century's Greatest Comic Writer" as the announcement of my departure a few days later, perhaps I'd contemplate death more often.
But with that would come worries. Worries are not me.
Thanksgiving is a busy time for me. I spent yesterday afternoon emptying the trunk of the Town Car of recyclables. The elder generation of Gluds just wouldn't understand the accumulation of empty Killian's and Heineken bottles, Bud Light 40s ('cause everyone goes slumming sometimes...), quarter barrels, cases of wine, boxes of cigars, and other assorted spent paraphernalia piling up in the back of my car. It wouldn't do well to try and explain away any possible below-average grades in the coming months after sharing that spectacle, believe me.
Now, by "emptying the trunk of the Town Car," you may get some vision of something like this:
Go ahead, laugh it up.
You think emptying the trunk of a 2003 Town Car would be a spectacle? No more than if I was giving you your luggage, and I'm not a chauffeur.
Try this instead:
Emptying this is no chore, it's a journey. Perhaps, even, "a savage journey into the heart of the American dream"?! And here you were wondering what the Hunter S. Thompson bit was about.
A quick scan of the internet will reveal that the cargo capacity for the newer Town Cars (like the first one pictured) is 20.6 cubic feet. Not bad, but a definite sacrifice compared to 1989. What was the cargo capacity of 1989 (pictured above, not mine, but the same model)?
Try finding that, I dare you. If you do find it, the figures are at best estimates made by the world's top scientists or bold-faced lies (and you know better than to trust those phonies on the internet... nevermind). My point is, no one knows for sure, and many men have died trying to find out.
I'm no such fool. I'll drive the beast, but you won't catch me messing around back there.
The front part where the light touches when the trunk is open, that's where it's safe to wander. It's where the contraband is stored and, more importantly, the only place where it can be seen. That's the limits of my venture. I'm a young man, and quite independent, but there are some things you learn from your elders that you don't forget... ever.
(
Before I left for college a few years back, my dad and I spent the night in the cabin my grandfather built on the car's bumper back in '91. People always asked him "But what if you get rear-ended?" To this day, the cabin's still there. Anyway, this was a last night of bonding, and it went really well. I knew the car; I knew to buckle up, get those periodic oil changes, check the tire pressure (7.4 x 10^4 PSI), and not to trust the gas gauge but definitely heed the "Low Fuel" warning light. Dad was ready to let go, ready to trust me. But he had one more lesson to teach. We climbed up the back of the car using grappling hooks and once we reached the summit, or the edge of the trunk, dad popped that sucker and showed me the rear kingdom that awaited.
Everything the light touches...
Yeah, I know, "Now just wait a minute..." I saw the movie too, okay? And while I wish my dad was Mufasa, he's a little less powerful with words and doesn't have the hair. He really just put it like this:
"Son, this is all yours. Except for that dark area over there."
He pointed to the netherworld, the rear portion of the trunk where the light didn't just end, but was absorbed as if the car was feeding it into its black-hole bowels. "Son, don't go there."
()
So, yeah, maybe I do "play it safe." Then again, to this day no one's asked to borrow my car to help move. This is rather odd, because in the forward (safe) section alone there's enough room to shelter the entire dormitory during a storm, if only they'd man up and get in. Four guys who didn't want to register their cars with campus security park back there, for Pete's sake! Like most '89 Town Car owners, I've had to field proposals for mega malls and other constructions: "Don't get me wrong, son, I've seen land like that before, I'm from Texas! Didn't you see Giant? I mean, I've seen land like that before! But land like that on wheels?! GAWWW-LLEE! It's historic, son, historic!"
Maybe someday, but the world wasn't ready in '89, and I still don't think it's ready. I think most would actually rather be blown away by a hurricane than venture into the trunk of my '89 Lincoln Town Car. Administration seems to agree, as they flatly rejected my proposal last year to alter the emergency plans.
Anyways, that was yesterday. I spent today resting. So all of you with your "Michael, I'm telling you, they were ninja." voicemails trying to get me to come watch The Octagon can just buzz off. Chuck Norris? I just cleaned out the trunk of an '89 Lincoln Town Car and you're trying to tell me I got to look to Walker, Texas Ranger for inspiration? Bronze souls, the lot of you.
posted by Michael Glud at 10:23 PM
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