72Pinto

Welcome to The Driver's Life

2010-08-12T16:02:00.003-05:00

Happy Birthday, Mini Driver

2010-06-13T10:40:00.005-05:00

June 13, 2009 7:57 AM

Hello, Wonderful.

Culver's is Delicious, Confusing

2010-05-13T11:47:00.000-05:00

The Drivers became fans of Culver's while on vacation in Minnesota. On a highway just north of Moose Lake, we saw a billboard that advertised something called a "ButterBurger". We weren't sure what that meant, but we were certain that we needed to find out.

Note: The Driver later learned that the inspiration for the "ButterBurger" might be this place — where the burger is actually served swimming in an obscene amount of butter. Culver's might put something similar to butter on its buns prior to grilling, but in no way does that compare to an actual "ButterBurger". The Driver will be trying a true "ButterBurger" as soon as possible.

Anyhow, The Drivers also learned that the Wisconsin-born burger chain sells not only "ButterBurgers", but frozen custard as well. And that in addition to chocolate and vanilla frozen custard, Culver's offers a Flavor of the Day.

All that to show you this — a photo of a Culver's sign:

The Drivers opted for chocolate custard over "BBQ Brisket".

And as long as we're dissecting the Culver's sign, it has always been The Driver's opinion that the company should have paid the extra $5 per sign for an ampersand after the word "Custard". Or perhaps splurged on the word "and" in front of "ButterBurgers".

Instead, The Driver pores over the concept of a "Frozen Custard ButterBurger".

Mmm... Frozen Burger...

New Taco Bell Item Not to Be Confused with "Cheesy Megadeth Taco"

2010-05-12T11:41:00.003-05:00

No Respect, I Tell Ya

2010-05-03T16:35:00.003-05:00

Disturbing article on Yahoo! Autos.

Technically, it was the 1972 Pinto. The Driver knows this because his was recalled. And because why else would his blog be called "72 Pinto"?

Despite Her Enthusiasm, Mini Driver Was Probably Not Ready for IKEA Mac-n-Cheese

2010-04-18T16:01:00.003-05:00

The Family Pet That Wouldn't Die, 2006 - 2010

2010-04-03T15:17:00.010-05:00

The Driver wanted fish. More specifically, he desired to have a beautiful aquarium full of peaceful, docile fish. And he envisioned those fish calmly meandering through a relaxing, soothing landscape of rocks and plants. To be even more specific, The Driver wanted to sit on his butt, stare at the fish and enjoy a little peace and quiet.

The Drivers' friends — we'll call them the Hatefuls — had plenty of fish. Their several aquariums (aquaria?) were always pristine, and always teeming with an assortment of cute little tropical creatures. Mr. Hateful even had an aquarium in his classroom at the school where he taught science or history or something that made sense with having an aquarium in the classroom.

The Driver told Mr. Hateful that he enjoyed staring at the Hatefuls' aquariums (aquaria?), and that he was considering setting up an aquarium at home. And so, Mr. Hateful offered The Driver a couple of fish.

First problem: These weren't just any docile, passive tropical fish. These were Convict Cichlids. Cichlids are a family of tropical (fresh-water) fish – characterized mainly by their horribly aggressive nature. The "Convict" cichlid is named for its black stripes that resemble an old-timey prison uniform. Plus, being cichlids and all, they are horribly aggressive.

Second problem: Mr. Hateful warned me that in a 10-gallon aquarium such as The Driver's, it wouldn't be wise to go with more than two Convict Cichlids. Any more than two, and it would be anarchy. And if the two fish happened to be a male and a female… Well, then prepare for domestic violence on a grand scale.

Heeding Mr. Hateful's advice, The Driver opted for two baby Convict Cichlids.

The details of how The Drivers acquired said fish aren't important for the purposes of this post. All you need to know is that A) Mrs. Hateful brought the fish to her office (where she worked with Mrs. Driver) in a glass vase; B) Mrs. Driver drove the fish (in the vase) home in her then-new German luxury sedan — fastening the seatbelt around the vase in an effort to minimize spilling and/or sloshing; C) there was sloshing; D) the fish hadn't been in The Drivers' home more than five minutes before the Surly Cat thrust his entire right paw into the vase and tried to kill the fish.

For a few short months, the two Convict Cichlids lived in relative peace (more of a cease-fire, really). Then, as the fish matured and grew, it became apparent that A) The Hatefuls had managed to give The Drivers one male and one female; B) The two fish didn't like each other.

By this time, The Driver had given up on any delusions of a peaceful, soothing aquarium environment. For the next few months, the female Convict Cichlid chased, attacked, bit and otherwise tormented the male.

On occasion, The Driver and Mr. Hateful would talk about the aquarium and the Convict Cichlids. Mr. Hateful assured The Driver that the life expectancy for Convict Cichlids was about two years. The Driver looked forward to Nature taking its course.

At some point during year three, the male outgrew the female. And then the problems started. Same violence and chaos, now just reversed. And now, both fish had grown to at least three times their original (and much cuter) size. The male fish grew increasingly hostile toward the female. Something had to be done. The Driver prepared for a good old-fashioned fish flushing. Mrs. Driver rejected this solution.

And so, The Driver was forced to install an ugly, clumsy mesh "fence" to divide the 10-gallon aquarium into two sections — the male fish occupying roughly 2/3 of the space, and the smaller female relegated to the remaining 1/3.

Side note about aggressive fish: When they're not trying to kill each other, they generally hide under rocks. Again, not exactly the kind of relaxing, entertaining aquatic environment The Driver had hoped to enjoy. Instead, The Driver was left to basically maintain a box of water containing a few rocks, some fake plants, an ugly fence and two of the meanest, sorriest, most sociopathic fish he had ever seen.

It didn't take long for the male fish to breach the fence and attack the female. And finally, after a few such attacks, the unthinkable happened. The Drivers came home one day to find that the female fish had lost her final battle.

Now, there was nothing left for The Driver to do but remove the ugly fence, return the entire aquarium to the male fish, and count the days for the dang thing to die of old age.

It lived another year.

The Driver took this photo the day before the Convict Cichlid's body was found awkwardly floating among the fake plants. Rather than a burial at sea, Mrs. Driver recommended a return to the Earth — where it could become fertilizer for plants, or a delicious treat for the local wildlife.

Whatever works, Mrs. Driver. Whatever works.

The aquarium is going into storage. And The Driver will never again make the mistake of believing that the way to peace and quiet is through more pets.

Oh, Hey, Former Neighbor

2010-03-19T01:36:00.003-05:00

Mrs. Driver likes sports. This includes the Dallas Mavericks basketball franchise. And before he got traded to the Phoenix Suns basketball franchise, it also included our neighbor Steve.

Steve — along with his roommate, Dirk — lived two blocks away from The Drivers in a moderately priced apartment in an urban setting. One time, The Drivers saw Steve and Dirk at the local market. Another time, Mrs. Driver almost ran over Steve and Dirk as they crossed the street between their apartment and the local mixed-use development.

And then there was the time when the Mavericks got kicked out of the playoffs (Or was it the NBA Finals? Who can remember?). By that time, Steve had moved to a condo literally one street over from The Drivers. The day after the humiliating defeat, The Driver was driving to the grocery store when he spotted a tall, disheveled man shuffling along on the side of the road. He wore ratty, cut-off jean shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt. His long hair was unkempt. Hello? Split ends anyone?

The seemingly homeless man in question was none other than our neighbor Steve.

The Driver suppressed the urge to roll down his window and offer the poor man a lift.

Between you and The Driver, Mrs. Driver probably still likes our neighbor Steve. Especially when he does stuff like this.

Don't ask questions. Just enjoy.

The Driver thinks basketball is okay. But he thinks his neighbor Steve is kind of a genius. Even if he plays for the wrong basketball franchise.

A Welcome Break from Pet Accidents

2010-03-09T22:17:00.004-06:00

This morning, The Bobble-Head awoke right on schedule for her 5:45 AM feeding. Why she can't wait another 45 minutes or an hour for one of her parents to finish a REM cycle is another matter.

Anywho, The Driver stumbled downstairs to find a snack — and to check the hardwood floors for the usual dog urine, cat hairball, dog feces, cat urine, dog vomit, cat feces or other pet-related calamity.

Imagine The Driver's nano-second of surprise (immediately replaced by utter submission and soul-draining numbness) when instead he found a bright red liquid all over the kitchen floor. Said liquid had found a path of least resistance in the grout lines of The Drivers' tile floor. It pooled in the grout and flowed to a wall across the room, staining the caulk between the baseboards and flooring — and not to mention the grout itself.

A very mild curiosity — just enough to momentarily quell the defeat and hopelessness — caused The Driver to trace the flow of bright red liquid to the refrigerator. Inside, deep in the very back on the top shelf, The Driver found an unopened glass bottle of cranberry juice. Apparently, the unused juice sat completely dormant for several months until sometime in the middle of last night. At that point, the bottom of the bottle gave way — and a liter or so of cranberry juice drained through the fridge.

The Driver spent the rest of the morning mopping up cranberry juice from the tile floor — and then spent his lunch hour cleaning the inside of the fridge. Only some stale strawberries and an unopened container of yogurt from the Clinton administration had to be tossed.

At least The Driver didn't have to clean up excrement. For that, there's always tomorrow.

Mama, Mia! Mrs. Driver Makes a Nice Sauce

2010-02-25T14:54:00.008-06:00

Last night, The Driver was preparing to make his grandfather's chili. In the middle of browning the ground beef, he realized that the pantry was devoid of several key ingredients used in said chili. After some grumbling and brainstorming, The Drivers decided to use the ground beef in a nice spaghetti sauce.

As The Driver posits in the title of this post, Mrs. Driver makes a mean spaghetti sauce. From scratch. And completely by feel. No restrictive "recipes" or cumbersome "measuring" for her. No, sir. Mrs. Driver has a general vision for the sauce, and she just goes for it. And it always comes out perfect. And Mrs. Driver isn't even Italian.

Needless to say, The Driver was giddy with anticipation. Mrs. Driver's sauce? Now with beef? What could be better?

Long story short, the sauce was awesome. Mrs. Driver would argue that it was a bit too "beefy". The Driver wonders whether that's physically possible.

Above : Too beefy?

Please do not contact 72Pinto for the recipe. For starters, it doesn't exist. Second, even if The Driver were to give you a list of ingredients, there would be no measurements. Basically, you wouldn't know where to start. But here's a hint: you can't go wrong with beef.

In Your Grocer's "Personal" Area

2010-02-18T15:55:00.003-06:00

So... Many... Jokes...

Half-Hearted (but Funny) Re-Post

2010-02-11T09:53:00.005-06:00

The Driver is a bit under the weather — both literally and figuratively. First, there's snow outside — so it's a good day to sit indoors and observe. Second, The Driver has the crud.

So, please enjoy this borrowed greatness courtesy of The View from Up Here :

Good Grammar Costs Nothing. Or, About $12

2010-01-28T21:33:00.011-06:00

The Driver has just learned about "Common Errors in English Usage."

The website is free.

The book is worth it.

Abusers of grammar now have fewer excuses.

Thanks to Alacrity Creative for the tip.

Where The Driver Relieves Himself on the Road

2010-01-27T15:44:00.007-06:00

The Drivers don't go to Houston very often. Probably need to do that more. Because what is otherwise a fairly tedious and uneventful drive was unexpectedly brightened by a new (to us) roadside phenomenon.

About an hour outside of our home burg, we started seeing billboards. The first one:

Intriguing. But not as curious as the one that promised something called "Beaver Nuggets."

The Drivers were hooked.

And so, we decided to stop at Buc-ee's and have a look.

Thirty minutes (and about forty bucks) later, The Driver reluctantly got back in the car. Something about his mother-in-law running a marathon, and we had to make it to Houston in time for blah, blah, blah. Seriously, don't Mrs. Driver and The Driver's mother-in-law run enough marathons? Look! I can make my own fountain drink! Dr Pepper with cherry syrup! Ooh... coffee mugs with quotes by John Wayne! Can I have it? Can I?

Buc-ee's is a monument to all things Texas truck stop. Only better. Not only is it sparkling clean and stocked to the ceiling with convenience store goodies, it's a general store loaded with country kitsch, Texana and darn near anything else you can imagine.

Next door? Buc-ee's Outdoor store. Where one can apparently buy deer corn.

In addition to the homemade fudge, Buc-ee's also sells jalapeno relish, jerky and the afforementioned "Beaver Nuggets":

Admittedly, The Driver found Beaver Nuggets to be better in theory than in practice. But he would never want to diminish your Buc-ee's experience. Instead, The Driver suggests that you load up the Family Truckster pronto and high-tail it to Buc-ee's.

After all, in the words of The Duke (at least, according to one coffee mug), "A man's got to do what a man's got to do."

Special thanks to Buc-ee's advertising agency for unknowingly letting me swipe an image from their Flickr page. Buc-ee's is obviously a great client with a sense of humor — and these guys took the ball and ran with it.

Welcome, Contributing Blogger

2010-01-13T14:21:00.003-06:00

And now, in her first-ever blog post, here's The Driverette :

xzx xddΩΩΩ , u N BVC2 B MH D GX

Take that, html.

And keyboard.

The Driver is impressed by how the Bobble-Head was able to pull off the "omega" symbol. Nice work, there, kiddo. She's also a fan of the "Tab" key and the "Caps Lock". Apparently, they're delicious.

Happy New Post

2010-01-13T14:17:00.003-06:00

Only four weeks between posts. Not bad. The Driver would resolve to post more in 2010, but really -- who are we kidding?

New Category: Don't Make Me Stop This Car (or: Parenting for The Driver)

2009-12-16T23:19:00.003-06:00

Friday was a little hectic for The Driver.

Scurrying from one appointment to the next, The Driver rushed into Chik Fil-A with Mrs. Driver for a quick lunch. As he walked into the restaurant from the parking lot, The Driver played back a voice mail from a colleague on his iPhone.

The colleague was going on for what seemed like quite a long time about some client that irritated The Driver. And so, The Driver responded to the colleague. And then made another comment. And then wondered why the colleague wasn't letting The Driver get a word in edge-wise.

"Man," thought The Driver. "What's up with [colleague]? I'm obviously irritated and trying to make a point, and he just keeps talking over me. Doesn't he have to pause for a breath or something?"

That's when The Driver realized he was trying to have a conversation with a voice mail message.

The Passenger is only partly to blame for this particular incident. That's because she wasn't the main cause of The Driver's distraction. It was, in fact, purchasing a new automobile for Mrs. Driver. But since the new vehicle will be more practical for the Bobble-Head, she is guilty by association.

Stay tuned for more stories of The Driver slowly losing his mind.

For Those Who Live Near a Whataburger

2009-12-10T08:33:00.002-06:00

Click here to get free food and drinks from the greatness of Whataburger.

And if you know The Driver, he's already signed up, thanks. But you get points for thinking of him.

Notice to Crazy Dog: You've Got < 24 Hours

2009-12-09T08:30:00.000-06:00

PRO: The Crazy Dog helps keep the Surly Cat's litter box clean.

CON: When unattended for even a nanosecond, the Crazy Dog sneaks into the laundry room and eats cat poop.

iRant Entry #6: Alternate Uses for Useless iPhone

2009-12-08T17:23:00.003-06:00

The iPhone doesn't make a very good wireless communications device. But it makes a good baby toy.

Sorry about the blurred photo. The Mini Driver is fairly mobile — and the iPhone isn't a very good camera.

Notice to Cat: Start the Car.

2009-12-07T22:20:00.002-06:00

The Drivers own a fairly nice sofa. Nicer than any sofa The Driver has ever owned, anyway. And by "nice," The Driver means, "It's worth more than The Brother's car." Which is to say, "The Brother's car is a beater, but The Driver still considers an automobile a more practical investment than a couch." Which is to say, "The Drivers spent more than The Driver wanted to on the sofa." Which is to say, "The Driver is bitter about the sofa."

Several days ago, the cat coughed up a hairball on the sofa.

Did The Driver mention that the sofa is white?

Notice to Pets: The Driver is Not Kidding*

2009-11-28T14:11:00.007-06:00

At approximately 11:30 PM on the night before Thanksgiving, The Driver observed one of his two dogs slinking down the stairs in order to perform what the vet euphemistically calls "inappropriate urination." Or, what The Driver calls "peeing in the house." Or, what the dog in question calls "Wednesday."

It should be noted that the Crazy Dog is agoraphobic. In fact, unlike most canines, she'd prefer to stay indoors. She doesn't even like to go outside long enough for "potty breaks." In fact, The Driver is convinced that she'd be quite content if she could find a nice, safe, indoor place to eliminate where she could ignore the waste and go back to hiding under The Driver's desk. Since this arrangement doesn't really work for The Driver, he continues to drag her reluctantly outside three times a day.

It should also be noted that -- because she is crazy -- the Crazy Dog does LOVE to be outside when it is A) after 10:00PM, and B) below 50 degrees.

Back to the slinking and the inappropriate urination. In an effort to nip the potential "accident" in the bud, The Driver quickly leashed up the Crazy Dog and hurried her outdoors.

Upon letting her out to urinate more appropriately, the Crazy Dog got away from The Driver -- disappearing into the crisp night air.

For about 15 minutes, the Crazy Dog had the time of her insane, neurotic, nocturnal life. During this time, The Driver went back indoors and returned to cleaning the kitchen. Later, he stood on the front steps and watched the Crazy Dog scurry back into The Condo -- at her leisure, of course.

The Driver was beyond irritated. And the pets were about to suffer his passive-aggressive wrath.

In the same 24 hour period, The Driver's surly cat had urinated VERY inappropriately on the mat outside his litter box. He does this when he's low on food. It's charming. And yet, it gets him fed -- so he's learned that it works out quite well for him.

Something had to be done. And since Mrs. Driver does not condone rolled up newspapers, kicking or matches as appropriate forms of pet discipline, The Driver did the only thing he knew to do -- namely, channel his repressed rage into a snarky drawing on the kitchen chalkboard.

Hence, the "Pet Adoption Alert Level" chart.

Now, each pet can be apprised of his or her completely meaningless "status" at any time. And The Driver can dream of taking the pets on a leisurely drive down an abandoned country road -- without all the messy guilt and divorce.

Note: The "Start the Car" status was added the next night -- when the Crazy Dog made The Driver take her outside several times in succession. Not to urinate appropriately, mind you -- but just to sniff and enjoy the brisk night air. After all, there's plenty of warm, safe living room floor for peeing.

*Of course, The Driver is kidding. At least, as far as Mrs. Driver is concerned.

Speaking of Old Shows...

2009-11-23T19:01:00.007-06:00

The Driver found this link today:

betamaxmas.com

Looks like a great waste of a few good hours. Maybe tonight after the Passenger goes to sleep.

Double Burger Days

2009-11-21T03:05:00.007-06:00

Every once in a while The Driver has not one, but two cheeseburgers in the same day. A few days ago, it happened again.

For lunch, The Driver checked Hole in the Wall off his "Burgers To Try" list. Then, when dinner rolled around, Mrs. Driver suggested Mooyah. And who is The Driver to argue?

After all, The Driver recently pulled off a cheeseburger feat typically reserved for the most seasoned burger aficionado — namely, George Motz of Hamburger America fame.

On a single day in October, The Driver had a burger for lunch at The Workingman's Friend in Indianapolis. Hours later, The Driver enjoyed his second cheeseburger of the day at Graffiti Burger — in Columbus, Ohio.

Two burgers. Two cities. One glorious burger day for The Driver.

Speaking of burgers, some dude on the Web has several pages devoted to cheeseburgers and reviews of burger joints. His tastes and opinions are remarkably similar to those of The Driver. Check out his Cheeseburger Compendium.

Second. Worst. Post. Ever.

2009-11-17T23:02:00.003-06:00

A few more sitcoms / TV shows from The Driver's youth:

The Jeffersons

Alice

WKRP in Cincinnati

Laverne & Shirley

Hee-Haw

Can't Stop Thinking About This

2009-11-16T15:57:00.009-06:00

In a series of commercials for AT&T LaptopConnect, announcer Bill Kurtis challenges athletes to a test of Web-browsing speed.

But that's not important.

What matters is the manner in which Mr. Kurtis deftly slings his laptop around with grace and impunity -- as if the thing was a prop made out of plastic and weighed less than two ounces.

Click here to view the spot.

The Driver is fascinated not only by the "Lap-Prop"©, but also any products in commercials that have to be held in a certain way by the actors in the spots. See especially: boxes of pain reliever, cheeseburgers, beer bottles and anything bearing a label or logo that must be perfectly played to the camera.

If one looks closely, one will often see that the product appears to be Super-glued to the actor's fingers and/or hand -- ensuring a pleasing and proper grip that doesn't obscure the brand or leave extraneous pinkie fingers awkwardly poking out all over the place.

Watch the hand that Bill Kurtis uses to hold his laptop (or see the photo above). Doesn't it look like he's holding the thing by two fingers? Imagine trying to hold your laptop computer that way. Now imagine holding it straight down by your side for ten seconds while you introduce Andy Roddick -- and then casually curling it up to your waist, ready to surf the Web faster than a tennis pro. It looks almost super-human.

The Driver once tried to pick up his PowerBook G4 laptop with one hand -- and nearly re-aggravated his 1994 volleyball injury. Of course, the thing is five years old and runs Microsoft Office 2004. It weighs almost as much as the Mini Driver. And like your family's first VCR, it has woodgrain. So it's possible that today's laptops could be very light.

Extremely Forced Reference

2009-11-12T12:52:00.006-06:00

Thanks to Mrs. Driver for pointing out this very out-of-context... er... pop culture (maybe?) reference.

It's a long way to go for a very Driver-friendly, yet otherwise trite payoff.

Click here and read the first paragraph.

Self-Employed Parenting for Dummies

2009-11-11T12:27:00.012-06:00

Above: A few old towels on the floor make a perfectly suitable play area for Baby. Note: if using the dog dish for Cheerios, Beer Nuts or other baby snacks, experts recommend thoroughly washing the bowl (or at least blowing on it a few times to remove loose dog food crumbs).

The Precious Cargo has diarrhea.

And now, diaper rash.

For the work-at-home parent forced to give up most of his working at home (read: income) for the sake of parenting, this makes baby care even more important (read: to the exclusion of even more paying work) -- and exceptionally tricky. Fortunately, The Driver has a degree in creativity.

Actually, it's an Art degree.

From a commuter school.

One best known as the location of the film "Necessary Roughness".

Starring Sinbad.

Where were we? Oh, yes. The baby needs attention. Right.

Anyway, The Driverette was minding her own business, playing with her floor gym when Mrs. Driver called with a few instructions from the nurse at the Bobble-Head's doctor's office.

First, the nurse recommended some special, expensive formula. Fortunately, The Drivers keep a variety of expensive formulas on hand.

Second, the nurse instructed The Driver to let the baby "air dry" prior to treating the diaper rash. This means "Naked Time" for the Mini Driver. Which is great, until one adds the element of the diarrhea.

So finally, the nurse suggested putting the baby on a blanket -- someplace where she couldn't A) roll off (such as a couch) or B) soil something (see: diarrhea).

Seeing as how The Bobble-Head was starting to chew on her fists -- and she had just finished filling up a diaper -- The Driver took these cues as a sign that it was time for A) a bottle, and B) some "Naked Time".

The dirty diaper was removed and discarded with little incident. Next, The Driver simply needed to prepare a bottle. But as any self-employed parent whose naked baby has diarrhea can attest, it takes two hands to measure and mix formula. Of course, it can be done with one hand -- even while holding a hungry, naked baby who is basically a ticking intestinal time bomb -- but the additional time required usually exceeds Baby's patience threshold (read: screaming baby). By the same token, making a bottle with two hands requires letting go of the baby -- if only for a few moments -- and this usually exceeds Baby's patience threshold (read: screaming baby).

The Driver carefully placed The Precious Cargo in her bouncy seat -- but not before lining the bouncy seat with an old rag.

The naked Mini Driver screamed, and then promptly wet through the rag and into the bouncy seat.

The Driver now found himself with:

1. Naked baby.

2. Screaming baby.

3. Wet bouncy seat.

4. No bottle.

Desperate to find a place where The Driverette could safely rest for a few minutes, The Driver remembered the nurse's instructions -- then summoned his aforementioned creativity:

"A place where the baby won't roll off..."

"Let the baby air dry..."

"Not on the couch or bed, in case there's an accident..."

"Please, for the love of all that's sweet and clean, let this baby stop screaming in my ear..."

"The floor..."

"Just put the kid on the floor."

And so, The Driver threw two old towels on the kitchen floor, and then -- after placing the screaming Precious Cargo on said towels -- returned to the task of preparing formula. A few excruciating moments passed, and the crying subsided. Soon, The Mini Driver seemed calm and -- dare we say -- even a bit amused.

The above photo of the actual makeshift palette (soon to be known as "Exhibit A") was taken during the little Spark Plug's nap time. This is due to the naked nature of the "air-drying" Bobble-Head, and to the potential legal ramifications resulting from The Driver posting photos of a naked, screaming baby lying on the kitchen floor.

Mortified and otherwise legitimate parents will be somewhat relieved to know that no babies were harmed in the making of this post.

Executively Posted Addendum

2009-11-06T09:38:00.006-06:00

A single sentence might destroy The Driver. It's so bad, he can't even clearly articulate its shortcomings. Of course, it was early in the morning, and The Driver hadn't had his Dr Pepper.

In the previous post, The Driver makes the shocking accusation that a radio spot for the new 4-door Porsche Panamera lists "a second row of... passengers" as standard equipment.

Upon reading the sentence no fewer than 17 more times, The Driver concedes that the radio spot is not technically incorrect.

Here's the sentence again:

And with the addition of a second row of executively seated passengers, there's no end to the rules you can break.

While the passengers are still described as being seated "executively," the sentence does not claim that Porsche added them to the vehicle. Instead, the listener is meant to infer that he or she should add a second row of passengers, make sure that they are seated executively, and then go out and break some rules.

The spot further suggests that the Porsche Panamera enables the user to break rules -- especially with the addition of a second row of executively seated passengers. It is not clear whether the word "rules" refers to the traffic laws in the customer's particular jurisdiction -- or whether the consumer and his passengers are simply supposed to drive around in a Panamera and challenge established social norms. While seated executively.

The Driver really should be focusing on paying work right now. But this stupid Porsche ad has him hot under the advertising collar. Here's why:

1. When the suits win, the brand loses. No copywriter in his right mind would ever choose the word "executively" to describe seats, passengers or an effing set of golf clubs. It's barely a word. It's clumsy. And it's merely some product manager's idea of saying something classy. This abomination of a sentence in an otherwise Porsche-quality radio spot was written by a suit -- and when a copywriter tried to edit it back into English, the suit held a gun to the copywriter's head and threatened to make him/her write table tents at Chili's for the rest of his/her career. When suits start writing the brand copy, the brand loses touch with its audience. And even if that audience may, in fact, be comprised entirely of suits (and prefer to sit executively as opposed to traditionally), they still don't appreciate being patronized.

2. Jargon wins. And don't get The Driver started on jargon. He has given lectures on avoiding jargon. He has dedicated a good portion of his life to eliminating jargon from marketing. And if he gets started on jargon for the sake of a silly blog post, he's going to blow a deadline. Jargon always ruins everything. Always. Everything. Period.

Good grammar. There is no substitute.

2009-11-06T06:14:00.007-06:00

Above: The new 4-door Porsche Panamera boasts an array of poorly-described features -- and some very surprising additions.

Porsche just introduced a new 4-door performance sedan -- and with it, the end of advertising as we know it.

For years, Porsche has set a standard in the advertising community for smart, sophisticated and deftly executed branding. Art directors and copywriters hang Porsche print ads in their cubicles like rock posters or album covers. And back in the 1980s, Tom Cruise permanently cemented the Porsche slogan in the cultural lexicon.

Now, with the release of its campaign for the 4-door Panamera, Porsche throws it in reverse, grinds the gears and awkwardly backs into a telephone pole.

Below is the copy for a Panamera radio spot that's currently in rotation. See if you can find the one word that ruins everything.

No one has the capacity to break the rules more than Porsche. And now, the new Panamera. The legendary sports car driving experience built for four. The staggering Porsche power is unmistakably present. As is the relentlessly precise handling. And with the addition of a second row of executively seated passengers, there's no end to the rules you can break. Porsche. There is no substitute.

Did you find it? The Driver did. In fact, had The Driver not been sorting laundry when he first heard this spot on the radio, he might have swerved his 2000 Toyota Tacoma off the road and into a ditch.

"Executively"?

Yes.

Executively.

Unfortunately, it's actually a word. Really. The Driver looked it up. He was shocked. And not happy.

Fortunately, "no one has the capacity to break the rules more than Porsche." Apparently, this not only applies to the laws of car making, but also to the rules of advertising, grammar, communication, and all that's holy.

That brings us to the grammar problem. Because that awful, awful word isn't even used correctly. The ad promises "a second row of executively seated passengers." This literally means that the passengers themselves are somehow seated... executively. Does this mean their legs are crossed? Ankle-to-knee, or knee-over-knee? Are they somehow uptight? The Driver thinks of most executives as stuffy and humorless. Are they even enjoying the fact that they're seated executively?

Wait a minute.

On further review, The Driver wonders whether Porsche isn't setting itself up for a world of hurt. Again, the ad promises "the addition of a second row of executively seated passengers".

In other words, the car comes with extra people in the back seat.

Does the customer at least get to choose the passengers? Are they available in an array of colors? Are the passengers volunteers or paid employees? Is the customer responsible for their healthcare benefits? Seeing as how they're seated so executively, that could be costly.

Bottom line, someone had better check this out with the ACLU.

The Driver thinks that Porsche meant to suggest that the second row of seats in the new Panamera are "executively appointed". He thinks that means "leather", but he can't be sure. His 2000 Toyota Tacoma boasts only one row of seats, and they are only blue-collarly appointed. Also, it has no more than two passengers at any given time, none of which came standard with the vehicle.

Every choice has consequences. Here are the consequences of Porsche's decision to go with "executively":

1. A Porsche Product Manager quietly closes his thesaurus, leans back in his chair and smiles with self-satisfaction. He has captured the essence of the seating experience in the Panamera in a way that's never been articulated.

2. Several attorneys in Porsche's legal department read a copy of the radio script and (after a number of emails and at least one conference call with the account executive at Porsche's ad agency) decide it's safe to claim that passengers in the Panamera might be seated executively. Except in Georgia.

3. An account executive reads the script, circles the word "executively" and draws a smiley face next to it. She's not sure whether that's an actual word, but she knows it's different. She decides to pitch it to her steakhouse client -- thinking that the audience would appreciate the value of an "executive-chefly-prepared" $5 buffet.

4. An entire generation of marketing writers begin hawking "a vast array of world-class, executively-customized solutions" to meet their customers' needs.

5. A copywriter quietly deposits his paycheck at his bank, drives to the nearest bar, drinks four beers, drives home, and kicks his dog.

Worst. Post. Ever.

2009-11-05T16:54:00.005-06:00

The Ticket -- The Driver's sports talk radio station of choice -- did a segment this morning about sitcoms.

The Driver started thinking about all of the sitcoms he watched as a child.

Here, then, is a list of those sitcoms. In no particular order, because assigning some kind of order to a list of sitcoms might add interest to this post.

M*A*S*H*

Welcome Back, Kotter

The Beverly Hillbillies

Gilligan's Island

Happy Days

Gomer Pyle

Three's Company

Diff'rent Strokes

The Bob Newhart Show

The Mary Tyler Moore Show

Rhoda

All in the Family

Sanford & Son

That's all The Driver can recall. Plus, the Bobble-Head is fussing.

iRant Entry #5

2009-10-24T23:56:00.004-05:00

iPhone dead zones in The Driver's 1,050 sq. ft. condominium:

1. Living Room, West Wall, Sofa, Left Side (when seated on sofa)

2. Living Room, North Wall, Love Seat, Right Side (when seated on sofa)

3. Kitchen, in front of Stove

4. Entire Condo, when calling another iPhone User

The Day in Excrement

2009-10-06T19:43:00.006-05:00

A typical daily chronology for The Driver, expressed in terms of the handling of human and animal waste matter:

3:30 AM Change wet diaper

3:45 AM Scoop cat feces from litter box

3:46 AM Clean cat urine from floor next to litter box

(Cat protesting lack of food)

6:45 AM Change wet diaper

6:47 AM Clean dog urine from living room floor

7:00 AM Collect dog urine sample for veterinarian

7:04 AM Pick up dog feces

7:12 AM Scoop cat feces from litter box

7:13 AM Change wet diaper

8:13 AM Change wet diaper

8:42 AM Change wet diaper

9:05 AM Deliver dog urine (in Tupperware container) to veterinarian

for urinalysis (Diagnosis: bladder infection. Treatment: costly.)

9:14 AM Change wet diaper

10:28 AM Change wet diaper

11:00 AM Change "poopy" diaper

11:47 AM Change wet diaper

12:17 PM Change wet diaper

1:00 PM Change wet diaper

1:01 PM Clean baby urine from changing table

(Baby urinates during changing)

1:56 PM Change wet diaper

3:12 PM Change wet diaper

4:00 PM Change wet diaper

5:00 PM Observe dogs urinating, pick up dog feces

5:07 PM Scoop clumps of cat urine from litter box

5:22 PM Change wet diaper

6:07 PM Change wet diaper

7:13 PM Change wet diaper

8:48 PM Scoop cat feces from litter box

9:15 PM Observe dogs urinating, pick up dog feces

10:27 PM Change wet diaper

Happy National Cheeseburger Day

2009-09-18T11:43:00.003-05:00

Thanks to our friend Presh for notifying The Driver that today is National Cheeseburger Day.

It's on the Internet, so it must be true.

The Driver ate a cheeseburger at his local Whataburger yesterday. Does this count?

Flu Watch 2009 : Hour 7

2009-09-17T21:53:00.003-05:00

At approximately 2:35 pm CST, and against his better judgement, The Driver received a flu shot.

The Driver is now counting the hours until he develops flu symptoms.

Stay tuned.

Wildlife 1, The Driver 0

2009-09-12T17:29:00.010-05:00

Those who follow this blog know that Mrs. Driver has a soft spot for animals. The Drivers rescued a pigeon from the side of an expressway, raised it in our courtyard until it was mature enough to fly away, and rejoiced when it returned with a friend.

That's when Mrs. Driver started feeding birds. The pigeons abandoned us after just three days without birdseed. Ungrateful punks. But somewhere along the way, the pigeons were replaced by a wide variety (and an even more impressive quantity) of bird species -- namely cardinals, blue jays, mourning doves and (especially) sparrows.

Those who follow this blog also know that The Driver has had to deal with more bird poop than he ever signed up for. But soon, bird poop took a back seat to another problem faced by many an amateur (read: by choice or otherwise) home bird watcher.

Squirrels.

Apparently, within the subculture that is home bird watching, the squirrel is persona non grata. As The Driver soon learned, they steal birdseed. In fact, they chew their way into decorative plastic outdoor storage bins to get to birdseed. Really. Chewed right through the dang thing.

Squirrels also chatter at birds and drive them away. And once they've had their fill of ill-gotten birdseed, the squirrels have also been known to sprawl out on their bellies and nap like The Driver after a big Thanksgiving dinner.

The subculture that is home bird watching has gone to great lengths to deal with the problem of squirrels. Squirrel-proof bird feeders abound -- as do an assortment of homespun "anti-squirrel" products.

But I digress. The Drivers had a squirrel problem. And not to mention a bird poop problem. As one can expect, Mrs. Driver was not amenable to The Driver's first suggestion: stop feeding wild animals in the courtyard. And so, The Driver found himself at Wild Birds Unlimited -- a store where people spend money in order to attract wild animals to their homes.

The Driver explained his squirrel problem, and received a knowing nod from the clerk at Wild Birds Unlimited. "Well," he said with a grin, "if you want birds, but you don't want squirrels in the birdseed, you have two options. You can feed the squirrels, or you can kill them."

Imagine Mrs. Driver's glee when she discovered she could FEED the cute, fuzzy squirrels!

So, we bought a squirrel feeder.

And it's kinda cool.

The Driver would go into detail about how it works, but A) it's somewhat self-explanatory (Squirrel steps on lever, opens lid, eats peanuts. Squirrel steps off lever, lid closes, peanuts are weather-proofed); B) The Bobble-Head needs a clean diaper.

You're Kidding, Right? (iPhone Rant #4)

2009-08-27T18:33:00.004-05:00

6:24pm. The Driver calls Mrs. Driver on her iPhone from his iPhone. About 45 seconds in, the call drops.

6:25pm. Mrs. Driver calls The Driver back. The signal drops. The Driver hangs up.

iPhone Rant #3

2009-08-27T18:03:00.003-05:00

6:02 pm. Outgoing call. Cheery jingle, followed by cheery, recorded greeting by unidentified female (presumably hired by AT&T):

"We're sorry. Your call cannot be completed at this time. Please try again later."

Okay. Yes. I'll admit it. It's my call. I assume full responsibility for dialing. But I do have a slight problem with the syntax. Because my call is not really the issue here. Suggested options:

1. "We're sorry. We cannot complete your call at this time. We realize that all you did was dial, and we assume responsibility for whatever technical issue or act of God that is currently preventing our cellular signal from entering or leaving your phone. We deeply regret any inconvenience our shortcomings may cause, and we prostrate ourselves before you."

2. "We're sorry. AT&T does not support outgoing call service for iPhone users."

3. "We're sorry. The problem is not your call. Instead, it is your choice of phones. Everyone knows that iPhones are toys, not cell phones. They should not be used for sending or receiving calls. Bottom line, we still think you're an idiot. Please try your call again later. Idiot."

I don't know what's worse: A) The fact that I waste my time posting rants about the iPhone; B) I have enough complaints about the iPhone to warrant a series of posts; or C) I haven't even posted about the thing that started this whole mess. [Dropped iPhone on Day Two of ownership. Shattered lens. More later.]

iPhones are evil.

Somewhere, a Cheeseburger Just Flipped in its Grave

2009-08-10T22:14:00.001-05:00

http://www.texasmonthly.com/blogs/eatmywords/?p=500

iRant Entry #2

2009-08-10T17:36:00.003-05:00

Each time an iPhone user calls another iPhone user, an angel gets its wings.

Also, the call drops.

Effing angels.

What's in a Name?

2009-07-31T22:54:00.005-05:00

Mrs. Driver discovered this store at a recent trip to our local shopping center. Said Mrs. Driver, "Why would anyone want a tailor for THAT?"

The sign on the easel in the entry didn't offer much to make things better. Apparently, "B" and "M" are the initials of the proprietor. His first name? Bong. As in "Bong's Tailor".

The Driver didn't stop to inquire about the "While You Wait Crotch".

Where's the Bakery, and is it Fresh?

2009-07-23T23:17:00.002-05:00

The Driver recently cruised to an unfamiliar grocery store to pick up a pie and some ice cream. He needed to find the bakery department. Thankfully, the grocery store had created and installed the above signage and wayfinding system.

The Mini Driver

2009-07-19T02:00:00.004-05:00

The readers have spoken. Or written, as it were. And the nicknames for The Driver's little bobble-head keep coming in.

So, here's what we're going to do: We're going to use the nicknames interchangeably.

Examples:

1. The Bobble-head spit up on The Driver's shirt. Again.

2. The Driver is already shopping for colleges for The Passenger.

3. The Driver was eating a cupcake, and got crumbs in The Precious Cargo's diaper.

Maybe one nickname will work its way to the top of the list. Maybe not. Blogging is funny that way.

Meatheads Overthinks Burgers

2009-07-10T11:57:00.008-05:00

The Driver Family went out for their first burger lunch.

And it was just okay.

Meatheads is located in a somewhat fancy suburban shopping center. That should have been our first clue. Inside, the space was undergoing somewhat of a transition -- the proprietors having just taken over the space from a previously tried and failed burger concept. The walls were bare -- save for a few dry-erase menu boards and some beer posters (the free kind provided by the beer distributor). Sparse -- and not in a good way. Kind of sad, actually.

As for the burger, it was satisfying -- for a non-contender. The bun was tasty and well-toasted. But someone should have mentioned that red onions were a no-no. Still, while leaf lettuce is also grounds for disqualification, Meatheads balanced out the universe by shredding theirs for better texture.

And then there's the patty. For the record, The Driver is a proponent of the fried (on a griddle) variety. There is no room in The Driver's world for a store-bought burger that's cooked indoors on any kind of grill, flame-broiler or other wood-burning, smoke-inducing contraption. People who want to enjoy a grilled burger can make one in outdoors and on their own time. Even then, The Driver doesn't recognize their existence.

The Meatheads patty, while evil, did have a nice smoky flavor.

Good fries. Good fountain drinks (a Coke for Mrs. Driver, and a Dr Pepper for The Driver). Not much else.

Good thing The Precious Cargo isn't eating solid food just yet.

Driver Baby Name: Update

2009-07-08T09:40:00.003-05:00

Nicknaming the Driver Baby for this silly blog is proving to be harder than naming her in the first place.

Please cast your vote for one of the following -- and then watch for another post with new and more confounding suggestions.

The Diaper Bag

The Passenger

The Gas Can

The Precious Cargo

The Exhaust Pipe

The Air Freshener

The Car Seat

Burgers + Legos + Interwebs = Greatness.

2009-07-08T09:33:00.003-05:00

Name That Driver Update

2009-06-29T16:39:00.003-05:00

New from The Driver: The Precious Cargo

New from an Awesome 72Pinto Commenter: The Air Freshener

Although we could probably stop with "The Air Freshener," please keep the pseudonyms coming!

The Drivers Take a Road Trip

2009-06-29T10:37:00.032-05:00

Above: The Drivers' 15-day-old daughter honors her native Texas with a visit to the state capitol. Not shown: The Driver and Mrs. Driver jaywalking into the middle of Congress Street to capture this photo.

This past weekend, the Driver family loaded up its precious cargo and... what else... started driving. The destination: Austin, TX. The Driver was invited to give a presentation at a fancy conference. And thankfully, Austin is home to some very special friends and family. So what better way to celebrate the Baby Driver's two-week birthday than with her very first road trip?

The kiddo proved to be an excellent traveling companion. Apparently, geography has no effect on her sleeping, eating and pooping -- all of which she performed like a little champion. Like Mrs. Driver, she was a little uncomfortable sleeping in a different environment. But her Mommy dutifully fed, burped, swaddled and comforted her into the wee hours while The Driver rested for his presentation.

After a successful conference, the Drivers spent the rest of the weekend with The Driver, Sr. (aka "Grampa"), the SuperCousins (nicknamed as such because the concept of second cousins is confusing even to grown-ups like The Driver -- and they're more like aunts and uncles anyway), the Great Aunt and Great Uncle. We also saw Aunt Presh, Uncle B and Mr. Jeff (who might need a different nickname -- possibly one that makes reference to his scary facial hair).

The Driver (and even Mrs. Driver) might have indulged in some well-earned adult beverages. There was lots of delicious food. And The Driver lost count after three Dr Peppers in one sitting.

Life was good.

After a delightful brunch with Aunt Presh and Uncle B, the Driver family reluctantly set a course for home.

What follows is a photo-documentary of some of the baby's favorite moments:

Above: The baby takes in Austin's famous Town Lake from The Drivers' hotel room.

Above: The baby enjoys brunch at Kerby Lane, an Austin brunch and baby landmark.

Above: No Driver family road trip would be complete without a pit stop at the Czech Stop. While the fresh sand is every bit as good as advertised, the Drivers prefer the kolaches.

Introducing...

2009-06-23T21:51:00.003-05:00

Um...

The Passenger?

The Car Seat?

The Baby Seat?

The Baby on Board?

The Mini?

The Driver welcomes your suggestions. Please comment with your votes / ideas.

In the mean time, meet the latest addition to the Driver family:

She arrived on June 13 at 7:57am.

She weighed 8 lbs. 15 oz.

She measured 20.5 inches long.

Stay tuned for more Driver Baby posts -- the majority of which will undoubtedly focus on her astounding and spellbinding excrement.

Braum's Makes Ice Cream Depressing

2009-05-19T21:09:00.005-05:00

The Driver family has started frequenting our local Braum's ice cream parlors. Specifically, there are two locations within a few miles of our home. Mrs. Driver enjoys the fresh-squeezed limeade. The Driver opts for the peanut butter hot fudge sundae. Because "...just the name sounds awesome and it is!"

Sadly, Braum's is not what it used to be.

Store #1, for example, has a credit card reader mounted on the exterior of the building below the drive-thru window. Taped to the device is a sign that reads: "Credit card machine will be fixed soon." The Drivers haven't returned to this location to determine how "soon" -- if ever -- the card reader will be repaired.

Store #2:

- Average age of adult customers: 107. Average age of youth customers: somewhere between "obnoxious" and "unruly".

- Average demeanor of staff: Surly.

- Guy Who Looks Like The Driver's Uncle invades The Driver's personal space by standing too close to The Driver in line.

Store #2 is currently offering a product called the "Sundae Driver". It's an ice cream sundae in a delicious, portable waffle cone. As the name suggests, this allows octogenarians to eat an ice cream sundae "on the go" (read: while operating a motor vehicle). It also means that the average beaten-down, low-rent Braum's patron can drive with his or her Sundae Driver in one hand -- leaving the other hand free for a cell phone and cigarette. This advanced technique is not recommended for older customers. One must hold the Sundae Driver with only the thumb, pinky and ring fingers -- while the cigarette dangles between the index and middle fingers.

In other words, don't try this at home -- and most definitely do not try this in the store. The Sundae Driver is recommended only for those "on the go."

Wow. Has it Been That Long?

2009-05-07T15:24:00.004-05:00

Mrs. Driver made chocolate chip cookies again last night.

You know what that means.

(If you don't know what that means, please click here.)

(Even if you do, in fact, know what that means, please click here anyway. Because aw, yeah.)

Things That Are Coming Back So Strong They're On Your Head

2009-04-28T17:35:00.004-05:00

Those of you who doubted the meteoric resurgence of quinoa into the cultural zeitgeist, you have been hereby silenced.

You read it here first. Oh, yes you did. You know that 72Pinto is your first source for all things quinoa. Don't even try to front.

Intermediate Spelling: $75

2009-04-23T21:11:00.003-05:00

Thyme

2009-04-15T16:14:00.004-05:00

The Driver is fairly confident that he doesn't like thyme. He had suspected it all along, but recent events have served to confirm The Driver's position on the savory herb.

In the last few weeks, Mrs. Driver had carefully prepared three separate dishes -- each of which featured thyme as a key ingredient. Through no fault at all of Mrs. Driver, all were deemed failures -- and in the case of two of the recipes, thyme was determined to be the culprit.

The third dish just took too long to prepare. So in that instance, it was a matter of too much time -- not thyme.

The Driver's dislike for thyme cannot be characterized as "hatred." He wishes thyme no harm. He simply plans to avoid foods that include it. The Driver does not expect this to be a problem.

Thyme could not be reached for comment.

Handles and Wheels in 2012

2009-04-12T22:33:00.008-05:00

The Driver wants a new law.

Resolved: Any object over 50 lbs. in weight, or any item larger than a carry-on bag shall be manufactured with handles and/or wheels.

Example: The Driver's queen-size mattress. The Driver's $25 twin mattress from college had handles. But for some reason, his $600, pillow-top, extra-deep-never-flip-comfort-deluxe-gold-inlaid-diamond-encrusted queen-size mattress has no handles. Or wheels, for that matter. Its weight is somewhat manageable, but its size makes it extremely unwieldy. Under The Driver's proposed law, such a mattress would be fitted with mandatory handles and/or wheels.

Example: The Driver's outdated entertainment center (below). The Driver recently had to move this item from a second-floor bedroom -- down a flight of stairs with a switchback / landing. The only thing worse than moving this six-foot, 200-lb. block of medium density fiberboard downstairs was hauling it up there in the first place. It was during the latter exercise when Mrs. Driver coined the term "Creative Swearing" -- which she used to describe a highly disjointed and extremely vociferous soliloquy wherein The Driver single-handedly invented roughly 37 new profanities. The entire event (and the aforementioned creative swearing) was brought about by the entertainment center's severe and blatant lack of handles and/or wheels. Again, with a new federal ordinance in place, manufacturers would be required to outfit such products with handles and/or wheels.

Above: The Driver's [Expletive] Entertainment Center, not equipped with handles and/or wheels. A proposed federal mandate would make handles and/or wheels on such [expletive] objects compulsory --- with manufacturers facing stiff penalties such as spending their time in the afterlife hauling their own poorly designed crap up and down an endless flight of stairs.

With support for The Driver's "Teleportation in 200X" campaign rapidly waning, The Driver hopes to alter his strategy to focus on a broader, more immediate issue. Since potholes and healthcare are taken, he has chosen to address the urgent and growing need for handles and wheels.

It's a good idea for America. And The Driver's sanity.

The Driver's Brain is Officially Full

2009-03-25T17:56:00.006-05:00

No vacancy. Closed for business. Sold out. Ocupado.

The Driver's mind has reached its maximum storage capacity.

No more information can enter without some other piece of information leaving.

If The Driver needs to memorize another phone number*, for example, he must first click "OK" and send his wedding anniversary date to the mental recycle bin.

Remember the name of a potential business contact? Must forget how to spell "towel."

Still discovering new quirks in the system. There seems to be no control over either the new information that is retained, or the existing data that is losed.

Loozed?

Opposite of found.

* The Driver does keep a few phone numbers stored in the iPhone and on the computer. In the past, he has not trusted these devices to do a better job of storing such data than his own brain. Unfortunately, technology seems to be winning. He now has trouble remembering numbers saved in speed dial.

The Driver's Missed Career Opportunities

2009-03-21T13:54:00.003-05:00

According to an interest inventory taken in 1987, The Driver should be gainfully employed in (and completely fulfilled by) one of the following careers:

3. Architect.

2. Florist.

1. Long-distance Bus Driver.

During his senior year of high school, The Driver also received a letter from Texas A&M University — touting the rewarding opportunities in the field of Poultry Science.

iRant: Part One in a Series (Unfortunately)

2009-03-20T17:47:00.002-05:00

Mrs. Driver wanted an iPhone. Badly.

Granted, Mrs. Driver's flip-phone was hinged with duct tape. And it had been dropped in the dog bowl at least once. These details will become more relevant later.

Never mind that The Driver's Motorola PEBL phone had worked wonderfully for years. The camera took great photos. The signal was solid and clear. The ringtone was "Breaking the Law."

Never mind that The Driver family had been loyal T-Mobile customers since 2001. And so switching to an iPhone would cause Mr. Driver to sign a contract with one of the most evil technology empires ever deregulated and re-congealed into a slightly more legal monopoly.

Mrs. Driver wanted an iPhone.

And The Driver had to admit, they looked pretty cool.

Plus, the purchase of an iPhone was a key step in The Driver realizing one of his adolescent dreams: The ability to access his entire music library in his vehicle.

The Driver Has Been Gypped

2009-02-25T10:49:00.006-06:00

The Driver wonders why his driving experience is absolutely nothing like Disney said it would be.

Special thanks to The View from Up Here for consistently finding the most randomly cool stuff.

The Driver's Driving Résumé

2009-01-26T08:44:00.000-06:00

1. Pizza Delivery Driver

2. Ice Delivery Driver

3. Flower Delivery Driver

I'm Ready for My Microchip Now

2009-01-22T22:51:00.002-06:00

For the past two presidential campaigns, The Driver has threatened to run for office on the "Teleportation in 200x*" platform.

Seriously. The Driver has family four hours away. And have we already covered the irony of the fact that The Driver doesn't so much enjoy "The Driving"?

Unfortunately, due to a significant lack of campaign funding — and not to mention the fact that the entirety of The Driver's research and development in the area of teleportation consists of The Driver declaring, "I need, like, teleportation" — his pursuit of his goals has failed to gain traction.

But that's another story.

Today, The Driver is embracing another imminent technological breakthrough. The Driver is ready for his microchip.

The Driver arrived at this conclusion when he recently had to travel to a neighboring country. Since The Driver does not have a work visa that would allow him to conduct business in said country, let's just assume that he traveled for "pleasure" — and that sitting in a two-hour meeting in a government office building could, under some circumstances, be described as "a pleasure."

The Driver's flight was scheduled to depart at about 1:30PM CDT (Central Driver Time). The Driver arrived at the airport at about 12:15, and proceeded to the ticket counter. He requested information on upgrading to something other than a middle seat next to the toilet. The agent suggested that The Driver try the self-check-in kiosk for upgrade options.

And so, The Driver walked over to the monitor to begin the check-in process.

And that's when The Driver realized that he was without his passport.

The Driver now knows that he can make the trip from the airport to The Condo in about 20 minutes. This information is filed under "Good to Know, but Moot," Because The Driver can't make it back to the airport with his passport in time for the cutoff / boarding.

Long story short, The Driver was able to travel standby later that day. So now, having a few hours of unanticipated free time — and not to mention being slightly traumatized by the experience of showing up at the airport for an international flight sans passport — The Driver decided he needed comfort food for lunch. And so, after stopping at The Condo to drop off his briefcase, he drove to his favorite cheeseburger drive-through.

Upon pulling up to the menu board / two-way communication device, The Driver realized he was without his debit card.

Left it in the briefcase. At The Condo.

And that's when The Driver decided he was ready for his microchip.

Things to put on the microchip:

1. Passport Information.

2. Debit Card Feature: Allows user / host to pay for cheeseburgers simply by pointing at the photo on the menu board. (May require monosyllabic grunt for confirmation / voice ID validation).

The Driver currently has no plans to run for elected office on a "A Car in Every Driveway and a Microchip in Every Cerebellum" platform. Once again, he cites a complete and total lack of funding.

* x = [ (election year) + 7 ]. The Driver knows that successful candidates set milestones that can only be reached after more than one term in office. See: JFK's promise to put a man on the moon within "the decade," or every mayor's vision of "a century where our children's children's children might be able to drive without hitting potholes."

New and Improved!

2009-01-11T23:36:00.003-06:00

What could possibly make 72Pinto better?

Like you would have to ask.

Click here to view the enhanced user experience.

Click your browser's "Back" button for the old, bland version.

3,500 Years of Human Progress

2009-01-06T10:49:00.012-06:00

The Driver recently visited the King Tutankhamun exhibit in Dallas, and was relieved to find that the spirit of human ingenuity and capitalism are alive and well.

Sadly, the event also marked the passing of our dignity.

While the famed "Golden Mask" or funerary mask — arguably the single most recognizable icon of the ancient Egyptian tombs — was noticeably absent from the display, organizers of "Tutankhamen and the Golden Age of the Pharaohs" made sure that the exhibit shop was well-stocked with assorted King Tut trash.

Including the item shown above.

T-shirts are understandable. Coffee-table books and DVDs are practical, informative and entertaining. Even the King Tut bobble-head doll was pretty funny (though poorly executed).

The tissue holder defies... Well, it defies a lot of things.

Then again, that's part of the reason for the exhibition, is it not? We need to raise some important questions about the life and mysterious death of the "Boy King."

Specifically:

What inspired the tissue holder? Did King Tut have a sinus condition?

While recent tests and earlier theories have given us much insight into Tutankhamen's age and physical health at the time of his sudden death, little is known about his allergies. Exhaustive studies of the hieroglyphs in Tut's tomb have not revealed evidence of the ancient ruler blowing his nose or dabbing watery eyes with papyrus or cloth. We can only speculate that the decision to produce a tissue holder as a tribute to one of history's most significant political and religious figures was driven by the need for modern suburban humans to accessorize their own dwellings with tasteless kitsch.

Why the placement of the tissue... er... hole?

Working theories: 1) Delightful narrative subtext in which tissue is dispensed from the nose — a subtle nod to its typical use in or around the nose; 2) Central location of nostrils on the human face closely matches the position of hole in center of tissue box; 3) Reference to the embalming and mummification process, during which the brain of the deceased was removed through the nose with a long, thin, hooked instrument. Embalmers may have used Kleenex (or similar material, such as Puffs with aloe and vitamin E) to plug the nostrils or clean up any residual gray matter; 4) Toilet paper dispenser featuring another "Boy King" orifice tested poorly in focus groups.

Who buys this crap?

This remains a question for the ages — and one that threatens to overshadow the mysteries of Tutankhamen himself.

Is King Tut rolling in his grave?

Well, Tut's body has been exhumed, unwrapped, subjected to X-rays and CT scans, then returned unclad to its original resting place. That's kind of like rolling, isn't it?

Behold the Future of Nutrition

2008-12-23T10:11:00.008-06:00

Over the weekend, Mrs. Driver made chocolate chip cookies for her co-workers and some neighbors. The Driver loves it when Mrs. Driver makes chocolate chip cookies, mostly because he gets to "test" the cookie dough.

Mrs. Driver was on her second batch of cookies, and The Driver was on about his third spoonful of cookie dough. And that's when he was suddenly blind-sided by an overwhelming and powerful bolt of inspiration.

The idea was sublime. And it burst into The Driver's brain as a completely formed thought -- with no problem-solving or prior contemplation. All of a sudden, it was just there. And there was nothing The Driver could do to stop it.

"Put cookie dough on cookies. Make sandwich."

And so it was.

What's better than chocolate chip cookies? Cookie dough. And what's better than either of those things? Easy.

"The Driver's Proprietary Cookie Dough Snack."

Now, The Driver acknowledges that it's not the most elegant of names. But that's partially by design. Because The Driver isn't willing to just toss this intellectual property carelessly into Cyberspace. So he's built in a few measures in order to protect the idea.

By reading this post, you (the Reader) agree to acknowledge The Driver and The Driver's Proprietary Cookie Dough Snack (the Product) each time you assemble and consume the Product in perpetuity throughout the universe.

Example: "Mommy, will you make The Driver's Proprietary Cookie Dough Snacks?"

Example: "Aren't these Proprietary Cookie Dough Snacks great? They're the sole property of The Driver, and cannot be consumed without The Driver's express written consent. Kind of like re-broadcasting Monday Night Football, only with far more dire consequences. Have some more!"

Example: "Mandy always brings The Driver's Proprietary Cookie Dough Snacks to the office party. She's such a show-off."

Example: "The Driver's Proprietary Cookie Dough Snacks changed my life. That guy must be rolling in money from those things. If only there were some way for me to send money to his blog or something. I'd gladly pay $19.99 for the license to make and consume them outside my home and without having to mention The Driver after each bite. But for now, it's a small price to pay for such an amazing and proprietary Cookie Dough Snack."

The Driver encourages you to try his Proprietary Cookie Dough Snack and post your comments.

Also, please send money.

You're welcome.

Wrong on So Many Levels

2008-12-03T17:47:00.005-06:00

How Fun is Jury Duty?

2008-11-26T21:09:00.000-06:00

On November 24, 1963, Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald in the basement of the Dallas County Municipal Courts building.

Forty-five years and two days later, the Driver found himself in the same building's Central Jury Room.

The Driver was unaware of his infamous surroundings until about forty minutes into his civic duty. That's when the judge came in to swear us in as potential jurors, and to review the handful of possible exemptions from jury service (Example of an actual question used to determine possible exemption: "Are you currently insane?").

This judge was cool. She made jokes and seemed genuinely happy to see us there. And in the process of explaining where to find the snack machine and restrooms, she casually mentioned that anyone who wished to could see the place where Lee Harvey Oswald was shot. All one had to do, she said, was find any security guard in the building and ask to be escorted to the basement.

Once the judge returned to her courtroom, the bailiff announced that we would have a thirty minute break -- after which we would be told whether or not our service would be required.

And so, after careful consideration and a bag of chili flavored Fritos, The Driver decided, "What the heck? I sure hope I'm never here again, and I sure hope I never have to see the basement of this building for any other reason. Plus, I'm paying these people's salaries. So yes, one of them should definitely give me a guided tour of this facility."

First step: Locate any security guard. The Driver found one seated at a desk near an exit.

The Driver: "I'd like to see where Lee Harvey Oswald was shot."

Security Guard: "You need a security guard to go down there."

[ Pause. ]

The Driver: "Yes, I know. Do you know where I might find one?"

[ Pause. ]

Security Guard: "You need to see a supervisor."

The Driver: "Okay."

[ Slight pause. Apparently, the Security Guard hadn't anticipated this tenacious and cunning move on The Driver's part. ]

Security Guard: "See the woman at the end of the hall on your left. Her name's Amanda."

The Driver proceeded to the end of the hall, where he found Officer Amanda cavorting with a co-worker. They were sharing a pair of earbuds, engaged in a conversation with a third party -- presumably another security guard in another part of the building.

The Driver: "Excuse me."

[ Amanda, looking frustrated, finishes her sentence, removes an earbud from her ear and looks expectantly at The Driver. ]

The Driver: "I'd like to see the place where Lee Harvey Oswald was shot."

Sensing Amanda's reluctance, The Driver attempted some levity.

The Driver: "Yeah, apparently one of the judges is offering free tours of the building."

Without saying a word, Amanda handed the earbuds back to her co-worker and sauntered toward an elevator. The Driver followed. The process took place in silence, and ended with the elevator opening into the basement parking garage. Amanda walked out and headed toward a ramp that lead to the street above. (FYI, in jail parlance, the system of driveways, gates and ramps that provide ingress and egress for vehicles and inmates is known as a "sallyport.")

She stopped at an unfamiliar set of doors.

Amanda [ motioning in the general direction of nothing in particular ]: "Here it is."

The Driver didn't recognize the location. His memory of the infamous photo was sketchy, and he seemed to remember more brick and less glass.

The Driver [ motioning to the doors ]: "So, he came out of there and..."

Amanda: "That was before my time. That was '63, and I was born in '66. I don't know anything."

The Driver: "Okay."

Their transaction complete, The Driver followed Amanda back onto the elevator for a silent ride to the main floor.

Upon his return to the Central Jury Room, The Driver mentioned to another prospective juror that he had followed through on the judge's invitation to tour the parking garage. The other juror said that he had also been to the basement. And to the fifth floor -- where he was shown the proposed location of a future law school, and not to mention two primitive cells in which Lee Harvey Oswald had been held immediately after his arrest. Apparently, the other juror had found not a security guard, but rather the head of maintenance -- a man named Williams. After a tense "Who wants to know" moment between the two men, Williams suddenly morphed into an eager and jovial tour guide, offering access to several noted sites in the building, along with juicy historical nuggets and assorted narrative. The Driver wished he had found Mr. Williams instead of Officer Amanda.

Soon, the bailiff arrived with good news. Our services would not be required for the day. We were dismissed.

The Driver collected his $6 stipend for his jury service, then paid $10 to leave the parking garage. He then paid $3 to park for 17 minutes at Record Grill, where he paid $6 for a double cheeseburger, fries and a Dr Pepper. Bottom line, for just $13, The Driver got a burger and an awkward tour of a notorious Dallas landmark.

And so, Dear Reader, if you are ever summoned to appear in the Central Jury Room of the Dallas County Municipal Courts building, here are a couple of helpful hints:

1. Plead insanity.

2. Find Mr. Williams, then ask to see the basement.

Self-Contained Grammar Lesson of the Day

2008-11-17T22:34:00.005-06:00

To the Good Samaritan Who "Witnessed" The Driver's Fender Bender:

2008-11-12T12:42:00.016-06:00

Dear Mac Payne (214-564-2682),

First, I must apologize for using your real name -- and including your phone number -- in this post.

On second thought, I don't apologize for that.

Anyway, just wanted to write to say, "Thank you."

Thank you for stopping to render aid to a dumb broad who couldn't avoid hitting a 3/4 ton pickup that was (at the time of the aforementioned fender bender) situated perpendicular to the road and in (presumably) plain sight.

Okay. I was making a three-point turn. I backed up into the lane occupied by said broad. I stopped. I realized that there was a vehicle approaching. And what happens next is (in this Driver's opinion) very important: I had time to say at least one very choice word, throw the truck into "Drive," punch the gas, and lurch forward about a foot and a half in an effort to avoid... Boom.

Understandably, reaction times vary among drivers. Especially aging, gold-digging, privileged drivers with Cadillac SUVs and a sense of entitlement. To be fair, in the time it took me to recognize the situation and begin to react, she probably had to hang up with her hairdresser, put down her gin and tonic, dial her best friend from her bridge club, announce that she was about to drive headlong into a truck parked in the middle of the street, hang up the cell phone once again and, in the words of The Driver's grandfather (in reference to female drivers), "powder her nose and light up a cigarette" before... Boom.

His words, not mine. The words "dumb broad" are mine. But not the part about stereotypical female behavior. The Driver knows plenty of women who are highly competent drivers. He's aware of their abilities because they frequently use riding in the car with The Driver as an opportunity to compare and contrast their superior driving and navigation skills. It's almost as if before meeting these lovely, intelligent women, The Driver had never operated a motor vehicle.

I digress.

Now, if someone* can tell The Driver that every driver involved in any accident in which that driver was in the process of, had completed, or had ever contemplated backing up at any point in time on the day in question is liable for any damages that are caused or might ever be caused by the act of operating a vehicle in reverse, then The Driver accepts full responsibility. I backed up. There. I said it.

But I did NOT back up into the Dumb Broad's (We can capitalize now, can't we?) Cadillac SUV. When the Dumb Broad drove into The Driver's truck, The Driver was swearing and driving forward.

And that, dear Mr. Mac Payne, is where you come in.

Before The Driver could even powder his nose, light up a cigarette and exit his truck, you appeared. No doubt you were checking the Dumb Broad's vital signs, establishing an airway, or attending to whatever made-up injuries she didn't suffer when she plowed into The Driver's vehicle at an astonishing (and estimated) 14 MPH.

Immediately, you assessed the situation.

Then, along with Ms. Broad, you invented a completely different one.

And then, without talking to or even acknowledging the other Driver involved in the accident, you left.

And then came the lying.

The Dumb Broad contacted The Driver's insurance company with your new version of "what happened." According to Ms. Broad, The Driver "backed into" her Cadillac SUV.

You, Mr. Payne, enthusiastically corroborated Ms. Broad's account of the accident. After all, you were a "Witness." Some might say that's different from an "involved party." But apparently, those people are merely interested in deciphering the facts -- and are not hired to be insurance claims adjusters. Because the claims adjuster for the Dumb Broad's insurance carrier -- Surprise! -- agreed with your version of the truth. Probably because they're paid to agree with their policy holders.

But your expert testimony sent any lingering doubt out the window. From there, it was a simple matter of, "The Guy Who Might Have Been Backing Up That Day (and Who Isn't Insured by the Dumb Broad's Carrier) Did It."

[ Note to the Adjuster: You are worthy of an entire post of your own, complete with your name and telephone number. If there is a less honorable job on earth, I'm not aware of it. But The Driver is getting so fatigued that he can only manage to offer the following: Consider this. Damage to The Driver's 2000 Toyota Tacoma: Left rear corner. Damage to Dumb Broad's Cadillac SUV: Front grille, slightly left of center. Had The Driver "backed into" the Cadillac, then wouldn't the Cadillac have been damaged on its side? And wouldn't the Tacoma have sustained damage to the rear bumper, below the tailgate? And while we're at it, does anyone actually inspect the damage to either vehicle at all? Or are we operating entirely on hearsay these days? Because had I known that I needed to lie to keep from having to pay higher insurance premiums, I would have written, rehearsed and recited a whopper. And you'd better believe it would have involved space aliens, three neighborhood kids and The Driver's dog. Oh, and did I mention that I wasn't driving the Tacoma that day? It was the Bentley. And I'm going to need that replaced. ]

And so, Mr. Mac Payne (214-564-2682), your contribution to society has not gone unnoticed. You are most definitely not a waste of space. And you certainly have every right to stand up for what you might or might not have seen, and to spew forth your myopic and subjective opinion as if it were irrefutable fact. Well done, fellow citizen. You can rest easy knowing that you rescued some ignorant old hag from herself, and that the evil, evil Driver in the sinister black truck will pay for whatever it is he did. Or didn't do. Who cares? Because after all, it's not about what happened. It's about assigning blame and eschewing responsibility. And together with that poor, hapless victim and her pretty Cadillac with the nasty boo-boo, you've succeeded brilliantly on both counts. What kind of world would it be if people actually had to pay for the damages they caused? Certainly not a world that you or Ms. Broad are ready to live in, that's for sure.

*Someone who is familiar with the motor vehicle laws in The Driver's home state, and who is not an insurance claims adjuster.

Genius. Almost.

2008-10-25T17:07:00.005-05:00

Someone recently forwarded a photo of what The Driver believes to be one of the funniest Halloween costume ideas ever:

Unfortunately, The Driver sees only one minor flaw with the execution of an otherwise brilliant concept. To me, it would be a lot better without the "instruction" sign.

The Driver's interpretation below:

As if this guy appreciates subtlety.

The Driver Survives Manly Arts & Crafts Accident

2008-10-20T12:50:00.005-05:00

Above: Safety is #1.

The Driver is listed in Fair to Embarrassed condition today after suffering a seriously lame, lifestyle-threatening injury on Sunday evening.

According to Mrs. Driver, the incident occurred at approximately 6:00 pm, when The Driver, 40, cut his left index finger with an X-Acto hobby knife. Mrs. Driver responded to a brief but violent outburst of profanity, and found The Driver in the upstairs bathroom.

"He was alternately swearing, calling out for me like a six-year-old girl and repeating, 'I'm fine,'" said Mrs. Driver. "Then, he asked for some gauze and his flip-flops."

Mrs. Driver rushed her husband to the emergency room, where he was pronounced "Not Serious Enough for Special Treatment" and instructed to "Just Have a Seat." He then underwent nearly two hours of waiting.

Later, during a routine ten-minute procedure, doctors were able to re-attach a small flap of skin and repair the cut. But not without stabbing the wound directly with a hypodermic needle -- twice -- in order to "deaden the pain." When questioned by The Driver, none of the hospital staff was able to appreciate the delightful irony in the use of a syringe as a means of reducing discomfort. Also denied were The Driver's repeated requests for his mommy and clean underwear.

Further reports from the medical team indicate that the incident occurred while The Driver was cutting paper for a craft project. The Driver later attempted to rescind his statement, requesting instead that the medical reports be amended to read: "Wrestling a coked-out polar bear that was armed with a machete."

The attending ER physician reported that the wound, while deep enough to require five or six stitches, was "the smallest finger injury I've ever seen." She went on to claim that the ER treats hundreds of injuries each week, exactly none of which are arts-and-crafts-related.

She expects a full recovery for the digit.

"Unfortunately, attempts to revive the patient's ego were unsuccessful," she said.

As of Monday, the Driver was resting comfortably at The Condo. He estimates that he is typing "at about 70%, unless I need to use the letters T, R, F or V. And G is really tricky."

The Driver's masculinity could not be reached for comment.

Things That Cannot Be Easily, Expediently, Quickly, Readily, Expeditiously, Simply or Conveniently Found at The Driver's Local Convenience Store

2008-10-10T09:04:00.004-05:00

1. Ro-Tel.

It's Sunday afternoon, some 30 minutes prior to kickoff. Mrs. Driver starts to prepare a batch of queso. There is no Ro-Tel.

The Driver has the following options: A) drive to the local Supermarket, deal with parking, fight pre-game crowds and walk the equivalent of 1/4 mile through the parking lot and the store itself to purchase a $0.69 can of crushed tomatoes with green chiles; B) go to the local Convenience Store.

The two retailers are virtually the same distance from The Condo, albeit in opposite directions. But as the name implies, the "Convenience Store" is a straight shot from driveway to driveway, offers ample close parking (The Driver is a close-parker), and requires less navigation (read: effort, exercise) within the building.

Unfortunately, while the Convenience Store offers almost every other conceivable food and beverage for the football-watching occasion, it does not sell Ro-Tel.

Defeated, The Driver faces the music and heads to the Supermarket.

2. Velveeta.

It's the very next Sunday, some 30 minutes before kickoff. Having wisely purchased this week's Ro-Tel on an earlier Supermarket trip, The Driver family once again readied itself to cook up some delicious queso.

Mrs. Driver opened the remnants of the previous week's Velveeta, only to find them... well... compromised. And generally not suitable for human consumption.

Surely the Convenience Store -- a widely accepted destination for cheap, quick, ready-to-eat foods (and not to mention every conceivable food and beverage for the football-watching occasion) -- will carry non-refrigerated boxes of processed cheese food. After all, the same store offers such "necessities" as a sewing kit, garbanzo beans and a variety of magazines for the modified car and motorcycle enthusiast.

No Velveeta.

Determined not to drive out of the way (past The Condo in the opposite direction), search for parking and fight the pre-game crowds at the Supermarket, The Driver frantically scopes out the two other Convenience Stores in the immediate vicinity.

Convenience Store B was smaller and more focused on its affiliation with the attached McDonald's. Plus, they once sold Mrs. Driver some bad gasoline -- requiring The Drivers to pay for the flushing and replacement of one gas tank for a 1998 Toyota Corolla. So even if Convenience Store B had sold Velveeta, The Driver would have been very conflicted about giving them any more money. Lucky for The Driver, no Velveeta.

Convenience Store C, located directly across the street from the original destination, is a "family-owned" operation. More accurately, it's a dump. Pretty creepy, actually. It reeks of bad automotive air fresheners. There is strange, decidedly un-American music blaring from a pathetic, old radio. And while there is an entire aisle devoted to wine, it is mostly of the $3.99 per bottle variety. And said wine aisle is adjacent to the extensive selection of adult magazines.

Still, no Velveeta.

The "Porn Convenience Store" does, however, sell pre-made, name-brand queso in a jar.

Done and done.

Of course, there is the small matter of the $5 minimum for debit or credit card transactions.

No, The Driver did not buy an adult magazine. He bought beef jerky, thank you very much.

3. Hamburger Helper

It was Wednesday night, 7:45 pm. The Drivers were buying gasoline. And they were hungry. And also in possession of 6 lbs. of leftover beef from a recent cookout.

The stars were aligning for a dinner of Hamburger Helper.

It was not to be.

Alas, no Hamburger Helper.

Curse you, Supermarket! You've won yet again! But someday, when you least expect it, The Driver will have a need that you cannot fulfill almost as conveniently as the Convenience Store.

Perhaps he will want refried beans AND a lottery ticket.

Wait. You have lottery tickets?

Damn.

Okay, Supermarket. You've forced my hand. I'm driving to the Convenience Store, and I'm picking up a taquito filled with cream cheese (with jalapeños), a Dr Pepper Slurpee and a copy of "Low Rider" magazine. Just to spite you.

Good Grammar Costs Nothing, Could Pay

2008-09-16T16:10:00.005-05:00

From a frequent 72Pinto passenger (forwarded by Mrs. Driver), via the magic of the Interwebs:

Happy Birthday, Mrs. Driver

2008-09-13T16:44:00.005-05:00

On September 13, 1814, Francis Scott Key pens a poem which is later set to music and in 1931 becomes America's national anthem, "The Star-Spangled Banner." The poem, originally titled "The Defence of Fort McHenry," was written after Key witnessed the Maryland fort being bombarded by the British during the War of 1812. Key was inspired by the sight of a lone U.S. flag still flying over Fort McHenry at daybreak, as reflected in the now-famous words of the "Star-Spangled Banner": "And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there."

Francis Scott Key was born on August 1, 1779, at Terra Rubra, his family's estate in Frederick County (now Carroll County), Maryland. He became a successful lawyer in Maryland and Washington, D.C., and was later appointed U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia.

On June 18, 1812, America declared war on Great Britain after a series of trade disagreements. In August 1814, British troops invaded Washington, D.C., and burned the White House, Capitol Building and Library of Congress. Their next target was Baltimore.

After one of Key's friends, Dr. William Beanes, was taken prisoner by the British, Key went to Baltimore, located the ship where Beanes was being held and negotiated his release. However, Key and Beanes weren't allowed to leave until after the British bombardment of Fort McHenry. Key watched the bombing campaign unfold from aboard a ship located about eight miles away. After a day, the British were unable to destroy the fort and gave up. Key was relieved to see the American flag still flying over Fort McHenry and quickly penned a few lines in tribute to what he had witnessed.

The poem was printed in newspapers and eventually set to the music of a popular English drinking tune called "To Anacreon in Heaven" by composer John Stafford Smith. People began referring to the song as "The Star-Spangled Banner" and in 1916 President Woodrow Wilson announced that it should be played at all official events. It was adopted as the national anthem on March 3, 1931.

Francis Scott Key died of pleurisy on January 11, 1843. Today, the flag that flew over Fort McHenry in 1914 is housed at the Smithsonian Institution’s Museum of American History in Washington, D.C.

Source: history.com

La Buena Gramatica No Cuesta Nada

2008-09-12T12:00:00.000-05:00

Poor Chad Javon Ocho Cinco of the Cincinnati Bengals. Perhaps he should have consulted 72Pinto before legally changing his name. Maybe even just run it by a bilingual friend.

Either way, The Driver is pretty sure that Mr. Ocho Cinco was going for a Spanish translation of his jersey number. Technically, that would be "ochenta y cinco" (or in American football parlance, "eighty-five").

Instead, the legal name of The Player Formerly Known as Chad Johnson is now "Chad Eight Five." Or, if he's signing a mortgage or other document that requires a full name, "Chad Javon Eight Five."

Granted, "Chad Ochenta y Cinco" doesn't exactly roll off the tongue. Then again, neither does "Chad Translation Error."

Note to readers: The Driver has not legally changed his given name. Rumor has it, however, that Mrs. Driver has given it some thought. Because hey, who wouldn't want to be "Mrs. Driver"? Aw, yeah.

This is Going Way Too Fast, and... Well, Okay.

2008-09-09T14:37:00.008-05:00

Dear Mrs. Driver,

I like you. You're cute, funny and smart. Even when I read your first e-mail, I knew you were special. I knew that you'd "get" me.

So, we've been hanging out for a while now, and it's been really great. At the same time, it all seems to be moving so fast.

I can't tell you the last time I had so much as a second date. No, seriously. I can't tell you. Partly because I honestly can't remember. Really. I'm pretty sure the current president was not in office.

Anyway, all of that time... to... um... "work on me" has made me... well... let's call it... "independent." There are some people out there who might say it's more like "selfish" or "set in his ways" or even "a mild sociopath." Those people just envy my lifestyle.

And you can bet your booty that I'm not about to give that up. After all, I just bought this sweet Condo. I'm going to watch all the DVDs I want. I might even throw in "Glengarry Glen Ross" for the thirty-seventh time and just let it run while I straighten up the office. And yes, I will channel surf at my leisure, thank you very much. I will also hang heavy metal album covers on the walls. And when I eat a can of tuna for dinner, I will not even use a plate.

Other dudes would kill for less. Many have.

The point is, I've got things set up pretty much how I like them. I do a modest amount of what passes for "work" -- just enough to cover the mortgage and keep me in cheeseburgers and Dr Pepper. Sometimes I go to the nearby ubiquitous coffee house with my portable laptop computer. There are a lot of other people there just like me -- pretending to work in the hopes that someone will walk by and actually offer them a paying gig.

I also spend a lot of time at the local pub. Not that you could tell by my svelte physique -- the product of a strict cheeseburger diet combined with a moderate-to-extreme sedentary activity. Sure, the gun show might look more like a couple of party poppers -- and the six pack is more like a case. But my motto has always been, "No pain."

That's pretty much it. Just "No pain."

So please forgive me for wanting to take things slowly. While I might want to spend every waking minute with you, it seems logical and prudent to take our time.

Plus, I've gotta bail for now. There's a re-run of that episode of "The Simpsons" where Homer gains weight to go on disability. Greatness!

I guess what I'm trying to say, Mrs. Driver, is this:

"Will you be my girlfriend?"

What?

Oh.

No, of course. I remember.

Seven years? Really?

Man. Time flies.

Happy Birthday, Rob Halford

2008-08-25T10:28:00.006-05:00

Above : Judas Priest poster, ca. 1981. You know, before Rob Halford (center, in Village People attire) was gay. Also shown : guitar heroes K. K. Downing (blonde hair, black leather) and Glenn Tipton (brown hair, red leather). From The Driver's private collection.

Turning 57 today : Robert John Arthur ("Rob") Halford, legendary frontman (insert joke here) of Judas Priest.

And what better way to celebrate in a purely coincidental fashion than to witness the "Metal Gods" live in concert on Friday, August 22?

The Driver -- accompanied by Mrs. Driver, another married couple (read: a fellow man-child and his equally resigned wife) and our pal "Joseph" (name slightly altered) -- paid good money to watch Mr. Halford amble about the stage and sing to the floor. But hey, let's see you try to stand up straight (insert joke here) and belt out "Eat Me Alive" (insert joke here) while wearing 50 pounds of leather -- including a full-length duster and biker boots. And let's not discount the massive goatee that seemed to be pulling his face closer to the ground with each note of every song.

Photo : Rob Halford ca. 2005. Friends of The Driver will appreciate the uncanny resemblance to The Driver's friend, Jeff. Everyone except Jeff himself, that is.

It takes a lot of energy to put on a show like Judas Priest. Many of today's bands rely on fancy lighting, distracting video screens and other technology to make up for a low-fi stage presence. Not these guys. Instead, "The Priest" employ old-school theatrical set design (plus the aforementioned costumes) -- and they complete the presentation with some good old-fashioned amplification. In other words, the guitars are metaphorically turned up to 11 -- at which point the symbolic knob is metaphorically ripped off.

Then there's the patented (or should be) choreography -- which features guitarists K. K. Downing and Glenn Tipton (sometimes joined by Halford for maximum effect) rocking out in a rhythmic sort of up-and-down or side-to-side motion, axes swinging to and fro with the beat in a powerful tribute to their ground-breaking dual guitar approach. Why does your favorite band have two guitar players? Ask Judas Priest. Better yet, ask the guitarists in your favorite band. Odds are they'll tell you about the times when they would put "Unleashed in the East" on the turntable, plug in the headphones, turn up the volume and play the entire album on tennis racquets -- one guy taking K. K.'s solos, and the other playing Glenn's parts.

Or maybe that was just The Driver and his buddy, Brian.

Today's Judas Priest concert still delivers 80 - 90% of its former metal punch. Rob Halford's geriatric lumbering is more about his need to focus in order to deliver his famous ear-splitting high notes. He still can, and does. So he's got that going for him.

The set list hasn't changed much on their last three tours. And yes, The Driver knows this from personal experience. The 38-year-old band does a good job of playing what the fans want to hear. Only about a third of the show's 19 songs, for example, were recorded more recently than 1985. And they continue to surprise by dusting off at least one great oldie per tour. In 2006, it was "Beyond the Realms of Death." This time around, it was "Dissident Aggressor" -- a tune more recently immortalized by Slayer.

Noticeably absent from the show were all but one of the tracks from the new double-length concept album "Nostradamus." The Driver was not upset by this. He purchased "Nostradamus" in preparation for the concert. Let's just say it's no "Hell Bent for Leather," if you catch The Driver's drift.

And chances are, you don't.

But The Driver thinks you owe it to yourself to check out Judas Priest's "Unleashed in the East," "Hell Bent for Leather" or "British Steel" records. He also dares you to resist the urge to air guitar.

For more on the "Masters of Metal" show, Judas Priest, or Rob Halford's big gay facial hair, please enjoy the following links :

Rob Halford pre-concert interview

Concert review

Rob Halford on Wikipedia

Words to Live By

2008-08-22T18:55:00.003-05:00

Driver Lessons : The Cover Band Years

2008-08-21T07:14:00.006-05:00

ABOVE : Vertical Hold (and The Driver) rock your neighbors' living room at some kid's birthday party, ca. 1985. Left to Right : Clark Hamlet, The Driver, Brian Faro, some kid. Not pictured : Bobby Ziegler.

The year: 1985. The band: Vertical Hold. The music: See below.

Bonus points for anyone under the age of 35 who can explain the origin of the name.

Don't Change
INXS

White Wedding
Rebel Yell
Dancing with Myself
Billy Idol

Walking on a Thin Line
Huey Lewis and the News

Runaway
Bon Jovi

Don't You (Forget About Me)
Simple Minds

Save a Prayer
Planet Earth
Duran Duran

What I Like About You
Talking in Your Sleep
The Romantics

She, Sheila
What's He Got
The Producers

Modern Day Delilah
Van Stephenson

New Girl Now
Honeymoon Suite

Major Tom
Peter Schilling

Magic
Drive
Just What I Needed
You Might Think
The Cars

New Year's Day
U2

Turning Japanese
The Vapors

Run to You
Bryan Adams

Jenny (867-5309)
Tommy Tutone

Vertical Hold are:

Brian Faro: Bass

The Driver: Guitar, Vocals

Clark Hamlet: Keyboards, Backing Vocals

Bobby Ziegler: Drums, Vocals

This Just In the Inbox

2008-08-12T16:42:00.004-05:00

"BBC News" just e-mailed to update The Driver on "Jennifer Lopez's Amazing A$s!"

Stay tuned.

To Prospective Future Owners of The Condo

2008-08-12T13:18:00.003-05:00

Do you like pigeons?

No reason. Just curious.

What about squirrels?

Interloper? Where?

2008-08-09T19:49:00.004-05:00

As if two pigeons, several mourning doves, a pair of cardinals, a small flock of blue jays, countless sparrows, a bunch of lizards and geckoes, and at least one toad weren't enough, The Drivers' Courtyard Wildlife Refuge now has a squirrel.

The rodent in question has been named Minka. So we think it's a girl. Although it might be Marlon. Still trying to get a good angle.