I don’t care if you kid is on the honor roll. Good for you and all that crap, but does the person behind you at the stop light really need this information in order to know how to proceed once the light changes? Is someone going to change political allegiances just because the Ford Focus in the next lane is driven by a democrat? How did we know the car was driven by a democrat, you ask? The Obama/Biden bumper sticker, silly! You listen to Catholic radio? Congratulations! Please get your mini-van out of the way so I can get my screaming kids to the McDonald’s drive-thru. If I can read your sticker I’m too close? Try not putting reading material on your car if you don’t other cars to invade its personal space. You’d rather be skiing? Don’t care. Don’t blame you because you voted for Hillary? I wasn’t going to blame you, but now I am because you are getting on my nerves. Eternity: smoking or non-smoking? Thanks for asking, but it depends on what we’ll be smoking. It’s been Monday all week? No it hasn’t- idiot! Hang up and drive? Maybe I could talk and drive if I wasn’t also trying to READ YOUR CAR!!
There are, of course, exceptions to every complaint. There’s a message-ridden car frequently parked at the local library that I enjoy. The car lost its resale value at least five years ago and it’s covered in whimsy. Lots of ‘my karma hit my dogma’ type of stickers. Some people have stickers for their own joy. If seeing your collage of a car every morning gives you happiness, go ahead and treat your car like a homemade book cover from your junior high years. Just please, please, don’t think that your Saturn is going to convince me to vote for Sarah Palin for anything, unless there’s a contest for most disappointing female.
The only bumper sticker the world really needs reads like this: Jesus Loves You, But Everyone Else Thinks You’re an Asshole. That’s a concise message that applies to just about everyone.
The other night I had a dream that I gave Zachary Quinto a coming-out gift. It was a ceramic platter with the Chili’s logo in the middle. The platter had a huge crack in it. I woke up at that point and pondered the depth of my relationship with Zachary Quinto. I wondered if he hated me after that crappy gift and I lost him forever. Or maybe he and I were so close that the crap platter was a special, private joke.
Perhaps it was a reminder of a special night out together. We both flirted with the waiter and drank too many cocktails with names like Triple Fruity Drinkini Kiss. When we left, I yanked the platter from the wall where it hung like a proud trophy and stuck it in my giant bag. The crack happened when I banged my bag against the cab door. We shared a chuckle over my tipsy clumsiness.
You see, I encouraged him to come out that night. I assured him that his fans would remain loyal, and he would still find acting work. When I gifted him the stolen platter, we shared a moment of deep nostalgia. He looked at me with a smile that read, “You know me best, dear friend, and thanks for assuring me that I don’t have chronic gay face.”
If I were his fruit fly, I’d ask him the following questions:
- Can I borrow your scarves and hats? You seem to have a fantastic selection.
- Why did Heroes start to suck as soon as the cheerleader stopped dating her uncle?
- Did kissing Uhura make it move? I mean, come on, Zoe Saldana’s a knock-out.
I realize this is ridiculous. Zachary Quinto would never take me to Chili’s. We’d only go to hip places that no one knows about. (Maybe we already do and no one knows.) I also realize that my lack of a Michigan-based gay sidekick is becoming a problem. Most of all, I realize that my need to work out possible scenarios of dreams is one of the reasons why I don’t get enough sleep.
I’ve been cheating on my blog this week and posting to other blogs. You know, exploring my options, trying to raise this profile and up my hustle.
On Wednesday, I posted ‘You can be a nut-job, too!’ to That’s What She Said Books.
On Friday, I posted ‘The cool kids are reading indie books.’ to Crazy Lady with a Pen.
A big shout out to Brina and Darian for allowing me to ramble on their pages. Indie authors rock my socks!!