Unintentially Grounded

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: To come.

My friend’s dad in Pennsylvania was not a poet, a seer or a thinker. But he was everyman, and his advice and sublime framework from which it was cast, put things in perspective for anyone within ear’s shot. One thought in particular lives freely within my mind, firmly ensconced in my being.

“You can’t take your car into the Beef and Brew.”

For those of you who didn’t grow up in the sticks, I will gladly interpret: You can have a nice car, but from inside a dark bar, it won’t help you get chicks. To me, he was preaching to the choir. I had a shitty car back then, and welcomed any comments that put me on an equal playing field with the guys in the Firebirds (Northeast PA, remember).

When I moved west, it was a different story. I realized maybe that philosophy only applied to places where Beef and Brews existed. Maybe it was more colloquial than metaphorical. Because in LA, you still can’t bring your car inside, but you can valet it, front and center, for all the world to see. And that for many is half the battle to getting your dick wet in this town.

After I graduated college, I became the proud owner of a year-old silver Porsche Boxster. It arrived as an unexpected and completely over-the-top present from my parents. I was counting on a fine writing instrument, at best. But everything comes with a price.

This vehicle was not to say “Thanks, son” or “Congraduation, Rob.” In fact, it wasn’t even a gift to me. Rather, it was a sinister present my parents gave to themselves. A self-congratulatory slap on the back to let people know they could pull it off. It was also a point of contention used to keep me in PA after graduation. They worried about me having the car in the “big city” and “carjacking” was mentioned at least a dozen times in the brief few weeks I was home. They also were kind enough to note that registration and insurance were “much cheaper” in Pennsylvania. It became a geographic ball and chain, complete with red leather seats. But, fuck if I cared. I was in my early 20’s and dreams of long blonde hair, fake tits and in-car fellatio swirled in my under-developed head.

I was young and shallow back then, so naturally this car came as a welcome reprieve to my previous ride, a white Oldsmo-buick that carted my ass since high school. Minutes after accepting this “gift” the OB became a distant and fatigued memory. I didn’t care about driving up the coast with the top down. I didn’t care about the engine, suspension or insurance (which I had to pay). All I cared about was one thing: How could this car get me laid?

Driving around had made me feel bad ass. European cars are like a drug. The more you get the more you want. My car was fun and fast, but after a year I wanted a 911, funner and faster. If I pulled up next to one, I would look the other way or pretend to adjust the stereo. I was the younger, slower sister with her top down. I was entry level and someone called my bluff.

I think both cars had a lot to do with who I was and what I have become. I went from the Denny’s parking lot to Puff Daddy’s. I felt like a guy who won the lottery.

But now, after these last two months I find myself looking at things differently and maybe thinking I don’t need a sophisticated piece of sheet metal to make me feel good about myself or help me get laid. Contrary to popular belief, there is a substitute for Porsche, and I am slowly finding it.

I went in for routine maintenance last Thursday and dropped off the car. I went to a bar close by and waited for a friend to pick me up. My phone rang. There was a “problem” with my car. Count on about “$3500 minimum for other repairs,” the voice told me. Oh, and they would have to keep it, possibly through the weekend.

So, here I was, faced with a dilemma. First of all, how the fuck was I going to pay for this shit, and second, could I survive without a car for a few days in the car capital of the world? The answers were “who knows” and “no.” I was living beyond my means, and now that dreaded realization hit me like a wet mop.

First, I tried to get a loaner. Sorry, but they could give me the name of a local car-rental agency. Thanks.

So I walked over and stood in line. Behind the counter was a slight and disaffected woman who I began to screw in my imagination. She was good. I minimized that thought and opened a new internal window. I began scanning the car diagrams, comparing Hyundai’s to Chevy’s, when it came to me. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe I needed to go back to my roots, back to the Oldsmo-buick days, even if it was only for a brief period. I needed to see if that driver still existed and what he thinks about the person I have become. I took stock and pointed to the cheapest thing on the menu. Hyundai it was. And no on the extra insurance, baby. I may have gotten screwed at the dealer, but everyone knows not to take the insurance. By the way, I like your eyebrows, can I have your number?

I drove the white Hyundai around for a few days. It was great. I was invisible and invincible at the same time. No one was gonna carjack me in this shit, mom. I reveled in its simplicity. I felt strong, compassionate, banal. I was persevering with one of the worst automobiles on the road, and it was quite splendid.

It was tough to give it back. This car made sense. The gas mileage was great, my insurance would be cheaper and I could probably get it from one of these places for a fucking song. And if I really was as confident as I thought, then I didn’t need a fucking Porsche. Right?

Hell, the fact is, I’ve never gotten laid because of my car. I’ve never even gotten blown in, around or because of it. And in the world of Porsche drivers, I am at the near-bottom of the barrel, only above those who drive an automatic. Maybe it's time for a wake up call and a trip to eBay motors.

By the way, you can’t take your car into the Beef and Brew. In case you were wondering.

Anybody want to buy a Porsche?