I hate making decisions that actually matter. Ones from which there’s no return. I know I just moved across the country on little more than a whim, but that’s really not a big deal. I had (just, it turns out) enough cash to cover the expenses that arose and of course there was the job that I came over for in the first place. No, I’m talking about decisions far more important than that. More important even than what to eat for dinner. What I’ve been agonising over ladies and gentlemen, is whether to sell my car.
Some of you will have put up with me gushing about it previously, but a quick rehash for whomsever needs it. It’s a sports Volvo (pause for laughter). No really, Volvo make fast cars and I own the best recent example of the breed. It’s a ‘96 850 R manual sedan that’s bright red. The reason my R is better than later Rs is that the later ones are all AWD, which means they’re not mental. Mine is FWD (pause for choking), so it does burnouts and squeals when you want to be stupid. It’s one of the best handling FWD cars ever produced, it has trick suspension and an LSD so understeer is very minimal and it pulls out of corners beautifully. It’s on par with a late 90s Impreza WRX, only far more comfortable to live with and people don’t hate you for driving one. Also, no one expects a Volvo to pull that well, so it’s great for surprising people. It was brilliant driving over from Perth, trucks disappeared in seconds and it’d cruise at a hundred and.. some.. all day with no complaints. I love it, I really do. I named it Hans.
This is also where I point out that I’m not really a motorhead, just an enthusiastic car geek. In general I hate modified cars (because the vast majority are rubbish), prefer not to squeal about driving like a dickhead (unless I’m embarrasing a dickhead with my Volvo.. somethings need to be done) and don’t have a wikkid sik subwoofer to pump out doof doof at stupid volumes.
And so I have a problem. I also actually like driving. I’d rather drive to Melbourne from here than fly there, if I had the time to waste doing it. It’s cost about the same, minus the cab fares to and from the airports. The problem is, I drive it once a month. Maybe. Which makes the $3000 (minimal) per year upkeep somewhat steep. So every logical fibre of my being (there’s more than you may think) is telling me to sell it, pay back the loan I took from my Dad to buy it in the first place, and focus that cash on things more immediately useful. Like a new PC to replace the aging sea anchor I’m using at the moment here. Or a shelf to put my books, CDs and DVDs on so they’re out of boxes and actually useful. Little things like that. On the other hand, I’ll miss it terribly.
On walking about yesterday, about a third of the way in I somehow managed to damage something on my foot. Being a prefect specimen of blokeitude (guffaw) I continued on, but soon enough everytime I put weight on it it felt like someone wearing a stilleto heel was standing on the outside of my foot. It’s still somewhat painful, not sure if it’s any better because I’ve not tried to walk anywhere. Still, there’s a pub luncheon planned, so I guess I’ll find out on the way there. And then have something to numb it. Although it does seem to be better if I walk on my toes, that looks ridiculous. And it gets irritating. So I’ll just continue to ignore it and assume it’ll go away at some point.
There’s something wonderfully surreal about seeing someone in a faerie costume doing her grocery shopping, sitting at a bus stop and enjoying a coffee and cigarette at a cafe. It’s something that should happen more often.
Please look at this picture. Is that not the most amazing car interior you’ve ever seen. It has amazing exposed gear linkages, an astounding steering wheel, puffy smoking jacket inserts in the panels, and it’s just has this presence that makes it so brilliantly unique. And before you say ‘come on, that’s ridiculous, no car needs an inside like that’ please remember that this is from a Spyker C8, a Dutch supercar. Something to be seen in. I reckon that if you were in the line outside some exclusive nightclub being denied entry for four hours, you wouldn’t mind so much when some random bloke and is stunning bird (or the other way around) pulled up in one of them and wandered straight in. You’d reckon, if you were the type of person who’d consider standing in a huge line a wonderful way to spend an evening, that these are people who deserve to wander straight in. You’d be happy to be held up. You’d merely want to be them. Wonderful.
Please now see Exhibit B. Then pull out to see that it’s in an ‘SUV’ (I’ve always hated that idea). Techincally those links are to the concept, but if you head to the main Spyker page and find the D8 Peking to Paris you’ll see that it’s the same as the concept, only instead of vaguely inoffencive beige, it’s horribly vulgar orange. Ugh. I realise that these guys are Dutch and as such I’m contractually obliged to infer that they were influenced by some form of illicit substance at the time of designing it, but still.. whiskey tango foxtrot. Is that not the most ridiculous and vulgar interior to a car that you have ever seen? Stupid shiny chrome everywhere, only four seats possible due to the ridiculousness of it all, scaffolding to hold the roof up… If someone showed up to the aformentioned nightclub in this Spyker, you’d run over and punch him in the face. Hell, if Ghandi rocked up in one of these you’d punch him in the face. No question, he’d be in hospital shortly after exiting the vehicle. And no jury in the world would convict you. It’s ridiculous! We all know that these luxo SUV things are pointless, but this one really takes the cake.. and in the case my friends, the cake exists in all it’s moist, tasty goodness.
Apparently the guy that started the new Spyker (the brand originated in the very early 1900s) left due mainly due to the D8 SUV model. I’m with him. In all aspects C8 (the supercar awesome model) I’m with them, but the D8 should be spurned more than any other car available today. By all means spit on X5s, MLs, Q7s, all of those.. but scar and slash and D8 that you may see. Please, for the good of taste.
So, I live in Balmain here. I feel safe revealing that upon the intarwebs, because anyone with any rudimentry internet stalking skills could find that from my website. It’s an area with a lot of young families and people who are of an age who may be thinking about it. Fear not, I’m not about to moan about wanting to join in. One of me is more than enough. What it does mean is that there’s a lot of dogs about, which is great because I like dogs. The park I wander through daily is full of dogs by day and bats by night, which are also great. This also means that all the shops/cafes/pubs are run by people who like dogs, so dogs are generally allowed to hang about in the front areas and such. This I imagine is what Paris is like, because it means I can draw frivolous comparison. Which is fun. On the flip side, I hear there’s a lot of dog shit in Paris. That isn’t a problem here, I’m quite sure I’ve never had to avoid a barker’s nest whist taking a constitutional. Of course there’s far less ‘culture’ here, but sometimes culture and dog do are synonymous. Although to be honest, from what I’ve heard of french culture.. it’s rather better than excrement.
So all in all, there’s really bugger all in common between here and Paris. Shame really, I’d love to wander down the street and find these guys playing…
I headed out on my afternoon perambulation, as I am wont to do, but I got no more than 100 metres down the road before I was promptly rained on. Not being a ponce however, I bravely soldiered on. Also, it pretty much stopped after five minutes. What remained however were the soaked footpaths. For most people, this isn’t much of an issue. This is because most people are ponces, and wear sensible closed shoes when it’s raining due to some form of irrational fear of damp feet. I hate to think about what they do in the shower. Plastic bags and gaffer tape? Anyhoo, I choose to maintain my staunch support of the Thong. Ahh, so nice and free.. Just that small strip between my….
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Sorry, I think you passed out there for a second. Not sure why, I was just talking about footwear. Anyhoo, the combination of my wonderful footwear and a damp footpath is usually nothing to be concerned about, except that the.. whoever it is.. council around here has decided to replace the good ol’ tarmac with these tiley things; nice, smooth, sleek, grey, very now. Very hip. Quite slick. If you’ve ever tried to walk on an ice rink… it’s not that bad. Essentially, I have nice smooth thongs (having worn then down nearly all the way through in some patches) and I’m walking on nice smooth wet footpath… I think you can see where I’m going with this. For the automotively minded of you, I’m essentially aquaplaning. This means that one must walk putting as little sideways force through one’s feet as possible, which isn’t all that easy. It’s all about momentum, which is fine until you have to stop or you come to a corner. Then one really looks like a complete tool. Then again, it must be said that anyone wandering about in the rain wearting inappropriate footwear and a giant pair of headphones probably looks like a complete tool anyway, so really.. who gives a toss. On the plus side, because they are closed ‘phones, I can’t hear what anyone is saying about me anyway, so even if I did care, I wouldn’t know. It’s wonderful. The other reasons to go with them rather than my little earbuds include not being able to hear traffic (extreme road crossing!), better sound quality, and not having to put up with a shitty little wire coated in super tenacious silicone stuff that grabs and pulls at everything it touches, and tangles itself so well that you’re most of the way through the hour long walk before you can actually use them.
The only plus side with this whole footpath skating scenario would be if I could actually skate that way but unfortunately, the sliding just isn’t predictable enough. On the plus side, if I fall over and injure myself due to my own negligence, I could probably sue the council people anyway. Except that I’m not a frivolous prick.
