Monday, April 28, 2003 pow!
I crashed my car on Saturday, for no goddamn reason that I could see. It was, of course, and accident. I was driving to school in the rain, and I slipped on wet pavement and went off the road. I spun around somehow, and hit a ditch, and then bounced out of it backwards into an electric pole. Some friendly hunters (who may actually have been the same SUV that I thought I was drifting too close to when I overcorrected) stopped and called the cops, who called a tow-truck. I'm fine, except I feel like I've been doing lots of sit-ups the wrong way. The way where you're doing them with an anvil attached to your chest, for example.
I feel like a total dummie-head. Ever since I moved away from school, I lived in fear of something happening to my car and complicating the commute. Then, in the final week of classes I go ahead and wreck it. The hunters, who were generally kind of bloody minded, pronouced it totalled, but since they aren't insurance adjustors, they can go fuck themselves. I think they were kind of disappointed that no one was hurt. "Yeah, yeah, she's walking around," the one with the cellphone told the 911 operator. He sounded kind of bored.
The other one said, "Boy, you couldn't have done that again in a million years." I didn't ask why I would want to crash my car into a pole, but maybe he thought (as did the Class-Conscious Towtruck Drivers a few years ago) that since I was a student at The College, I got into whatever autotrouble as I did because I was too busy hurrying back to my sumptuous dorm to light cigars with hundred dollar bills and discuss self-actualization to pay attention to the rules of the road. He looked at the steaming wreck of my little car and said, "Wow, boy, if you'd hit there with your driver's door, you'd be dead."
Yes, Folksy-Joe Assbutt, and if I'd managed to stay on the goddamn road, I'd be igniting the day's first hundred dollar bill by now. I hate you. Oh, how I hate you.
The cop showed up. He was a nice guy, who had immaculately groomed eyebrows. I was Thisclose to asking him where he got them waxed, but it seemed inappropriate. We drove around trying to figure out which power company owned the pole I'd cracked, and then an apprently non- class-conscious towtruck driver showed up and towed my wreck away.
Enough of that though. On to:
More Starfucking!!!
A former boyfriend of mine went to college with Little Pete from The Adventures of Pete and Pete . He and little Pete didn't actually, like, "hang." Little Pete was too busy with his jam band, and having one night stands with girls who were doing him for the novelty value.
Tom Clancy's kid goes to my school. I want to protect his privacy, so I won't tell you his name, but his initials are T.C. . When he arrived at school my sophmore year, some friends and I hatched a get-rich quick scheme. We would make and sell "I fucked Tom Clancy's kid" t-shirts. We were going to do this without his permission, but then we thought, shit, if anybody at this school has armed goons at his disposal...So we ended up scheduling a lunch meeting about it. He nixed the proposal, since it was technically his father's name we would be using, and "Guys might wear it, and I wouldn't want people to think I was gay." So we had a yard sale instead. Tom Clancy's kid now wears goofy big pants .
Chocolate, a boy I dated when I was 15 was a stunt kid in an obscure straight-to-video production called Trading Moms that was filmed in Richmond. Chocolate got to drive a bus down Riverside Drive, a curving narrow road above steep ravines. Also, he got to play cards with Andre the Giant .
There are more, so many more, but I don't want to fuck all my stars at once.
posted by Frenz | 4/28/2003 12:46:00 PM
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