5 June 2001
*Guest post warning*Guest post warning*Guest post warning*
This isn't a post about how "funny some people's parents are" because Pixeldiva wins hands down. My parents are really normal. All four of them. Two are unambitious, down to earth, nice enough. Work a nine to five, five days a week, come home, eat dinner, watch cable television. Y'know, normal.
And the other two are normal also... but on a slightly higher scale.
One works freelance now as a programmer, the other works for one of the biggest entertainment companies on the planet. And they just informed me by e-mail this morning that it is a shame I haven't gone and taken the driving lessons they tried pushing on me at eighteen and then again at twenty one, what do I need driving lessons for? I live in London, we have the Tube for all local transport and anything further afield can be reached by plane from any of the numerous airports around the city.
Why was it a shame?
Well, because they've bought a 1967 Ford Mustang Coupé similar to this one. To begin with I thought my mother was having a joke. She knows I love Bullitt, she saw the 3D animation I did to get into College based on a chase between a 67 Fastback and a Dodge Challenger (and considering some of the other people who got onto that course, I'd have gotten away with a flip-book version drawn on a napkin with a crayon)
So I didn't believe her at first. But just in case, I replied, CC'ing in my sister that when they die, the car is mine. No matter what state of disrepair it might be in, the car... *will*... be... mine.
Then, the full extent of the horror was revealed to me when my mother revealed that it is in fact a "butterscotch" color, with a *white* vinyl roof.
There are certain cars that should only exist in certain color-schemes. Yellow Beatles, silver Porsches, black BMWs, red Ferraris, black Pontiac Firebirds with the flames across the hood. And everyone knows if you get a Cobra it is white with two brilliant blue stripes from hood to trunk. If you get a Shelby it is either dark emerald green or black with silver trim. If you get a '67 it is either candyapple red or simple black, but it should *not*, under *any* circumstances be butterscotch! Or white!
This is known as a muscle car because it needs to be kept under a firm grasp. It accelerates like a wild horse (hence the name) and brakes only after you've felt your knee cap start to protest that you cannot apply any more pressure to your foot. This is the car we watched tear up the asphalt in Bullitt (okay, that was a 68 GT, but close enough). The engine is a 290 with 4-barrel carburetor, it has power-steering but no power-brakes (again, the 68, the safer model, does).
My mother's only complaints were that the eight-track had been removed and it handled like a whale. My complaint is that its butterscotch and white!
One day, one day, they will be too old to drive it, they will want an automatic with airbags and ABS and cruise control. And then, on that day, the car will be mine. And the next day the car will say hello to Mr black spraycan and silver detailer.
Well, to be fair I've yet to see the car, and I've yet to get a license, and who knows, my sister might steal it out from under me unless she wants one of the other two cars instead (but she won't because she knows I've always loved Mustangs too).
How do you convincingly plead "justifiable homicide"?
Not sure how it works on your side of the Atlantic but justifiable homicide is an common occurence for us Yanks. Some folks just "needed killing."
Or so I'm told.
... the online home and (not very) alter(ed)-ego of Ann McMeekin, a recently freelance Web Accessibility Consultant.
... passionate about many things, most of which will turn up on this site at some time or other.
... contactable via email.
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