Monday, April 12, 2004

Specious Beauty!

Mr. Dressup, Raffi, and Fred Penner all advocated the practice of 'sharing'.
Examples of sharing that I like best are: ice cream; scotch; licorice.
Examples of sharing that I tolerate are: colds; responsibility for a broken vase; seal clubs.

Today, however, was an example of sharing that I like least: an opinion contrary to my own.

I drive, as is my good fortune, a classic Ford Fairlane Ranchero. With its aggressive angles, fuzzy dice, and a paint job so midnight black that a bat would get lost, it looks pretty snazzy. The fact that it is a 'cruck', or car/truck, only adds to its mystique and charm.
Driving around town the Ranchero raises a lot of eyebrows, and many people will call out "Nice car!" or "Lookin' good!" or "What year is it?".

The last question is the most popular.
"Lookin' good!" is the least.

People who call out "What year is it?" usually have no idea what year, or even what make, the car should be. Being guilty myself of this, I should know. The question is just part of the fraternity of men. 'Car Talk' binds us together the same way 'Sex in the City chat' or 'Jennifer Aniston Hair Talk' does women, and therefore there is no shame in using a slightly misdirected question to open up discussion.

So today, from the sidewalk at Queen and Woodbine a man calls to me, the Ranchero driver, and he says:

A- "Is that a '68?"
B- "Naw, it's a '74."

The man looked the car back to front.

A- "Looks like a '68!"
B- "Nope. I'm pretty sure it's a '74, pal."

This is where things got a whole lot more 'Toronto'.
The guy looks right at me, and shouts:

A- "Fuck you! It's a '68!!"

I drove on.

Fuck me? What the hell is that? I mean, I'm the one behind the wheel; I ought to know better than some chump walking what year my car is. Things would be different if I called out to him while stopped at a red light and asked, "Those 'Hush Puppies' the Aught-Threes or the Aught-Fours?". In that situation one could safely assume that I don't know the correct answer and require clarification. Isn't that the fundamental difference between a question and a statement?

Flustered, I pulled over to consult the Ford Owner's Manual. I only needed to take it half way out of the armrest to read: Enjoy driving your 1969 Ford Fairlane Ranchero!

So I was wrong.

But so was he!

Fuck him.

I wonder if he'd be as cheeky asking Phyllis Diller her age.

Phyllis Diller- "Twenty-nine!"
A- "Fuck you! You're seventy-eight!"

Not likely. She'd back her car over him.

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