In a mad fit of clearing out and organizing, I came across a journal that I thought was lost. It was an interesting read. More on that later. But for tonight, since there seems to be some sort of televised gladiatorial contest today, a gem of sorts that I unearthed. I wrote it while staring out the window and trying to stay awake at the most boring job in the world - answering phones at a bank. Enjoy.
October 27, 1995: Big Brown Camaro
October 27, 1995: Big Brown Camaro
Oh big brown Camaro! How you've seen your better days. Your hood is wearing thin - spots of spray paint to stop the baldness - like Rogaine for cars. Your fish-like body slides through the street with your taillights grinning in their big-lipped delight. Delight at being a has-been, a used-to-be-somebody. Once a sporty young buck, shiny and new. The girls wanted you, the guys respected you. In your glory days. Days - I may interject - which also glorified the likes of Olivia Newton John, The BeeGees, and acid washed jeans. But now you haven't aged very well, dear Camaro. You're a rusty old man with a beat-up body from your muscle days. Your big, toothy, backward grin and your poisonous, growling cough from too many years of smoking those tailpipes. Yet you seem to notice no age, no trends. You continue in your preening strut, though now more a growling schlep. You imagine that women still want you and men still respect you, but how often sings the refrain when you drive by: "Oh big brown Camaro, how you have seen your better days!"
