Sweet Chariot

red riding hoodlum

On Saturday, I collected my new ride.

As I drove her away from the showroom, there was this little sense of awe that crawled up my spine like the elastic band of a cheap underwear. Sure, the car was pretty amazing, but that wasn't quite the reason why I felt the way I did. Okay, okay, maybe a little. But mostly, I just felt like a lucky sonuvabitch blessed.

A car is a symbol. For some folks, cars represent status. For others, it signifies freedom and independence. And there are those who consider their cars an extension of their genitalia. Small penis? Nevermind, get a big fancy car. Heh! But for most of us working stiffs, a car is a milestone - a reward for not quitting early.

Together with a bunch of friends I have been working for myself and now, eight years on, I have a nice little car to show for it. As you can probably tell by now, I must not be terribly successful at what I do. Otherwise I'd be swimming in money, and getting driven by some fancy single-digit number plate German car by some tall blonde Swedish chick named "Hands-On" Helga. *ahem*

Still, it ain't half bad and I am grateful. Grateful that we weathered some pretty big storms along the way. Grateful for the opportunity to do our own thing. Grateful, even for the crash of '97 that left us out on the streets with nothing and no choice but to start all over. Grateful that our work has always put food on the table - sure it's not champagne and caviar, but we're never hungry (*ahaks*). And of course, grateful for the new ride - and oh, what a sweeeet ride.

Someone up there is definitely watching out for me. Sing with me now... swing low, sweet chariot...