This is the best cause I know of. Please sign this petition to get rid of the front license plate law in California.
PETITION
Friday, April 23, 2004
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
In My Old Age, I'm Not As Interactive
By: Ben Tiernan
For the moment, I have a job in advertising, and in my capacity as an advertiser I have to listen to network executives sell their programming lineup for the upcoming season. These presentations are called Up-Fronts, and the idea is that, once exposed to the new programs, all brands will clamber in and line up to run commercials on Paul and Gorrax - It's Will And Grace meets Deep Space Nine.
These presentations usually kick off with a lot of fanfare, but it is rare when my senses are so accosted by sound, sight and overwhelming personalities that the experience closely resembles trauma.
Last week Fuse Network came into our office to tell us what they've done, and what they're going to do. Fuse is a cable music network, so naturally they generated a little hubbub. For my taste, they went over the top. They handed out noisy little PDAs and flashed seizure-inducing images on the screen. Through the sound system, they piped Brittney, Fiddy', and Chingy, and at the helm an animated chubby man in a suit effused over ratings. To thoroughly confuse me, they brought a gospel choir into the room. They sang and clapped and danced around while the chubby man yelled and images of thongs and skateboards flashed on the screen. I felt sick.
Through the cacophony, I heard that we were engaged in a contest, and that clues were forthcoming. The prize - the PDA in our hand. I wanted the PDA, so I hunkered down and tried to listen. Soon, a video began to play of a small Asian man singing a Rickey Martin song poorly. Pictures of things flashed on the screen. These were the proposed "clues", but to what? What was the contest? What was the puzzle?
I was flabbergasted and angry because I wasn't going to win a PDA. In a room filled with dozens of television and advertising executives, I was surely the smartest one, but there was no way I could win if I didn't know the rules. How did they know what we were doing? Maybe they didn't. The music blared, the small Asian man jerked on the screen, the gospel singers danced, and the chubby man bounced at the head of the room.
The PDA said BUZZ IN, so I did. I pressed the face of the hand-held, and the music stopped, the video stopped, the gospels singers stopped, and the chubby man went ballistic. “Who buzzed in? Who knows the answer?”
“I did.”
“Tell us. What's the answer?”
All faces turned toward me- eager anticipatory faces, caught up in the fervor of the moment.
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.
The man was clearly upset. “Just follow the clues. FOLLOW THE CLUES!”
“But what do the...”
It was no use. Before I could finish, the music was back up, the video was rolling, and gospel singers swayed in their gowns
For the moment, I have a job in advertising, and in my capacity as an advertiser I have to listen to network executives sell their programming lineup for the upcoming season. These presentations are called Up-Fronts, and the idea is that, once exposed to the new programs, all brands will clamber in and line up to run commercials on Paul and Gorrax - It's Will And Grace meets Deep Space Nine.
These presentations usually kick off with a lot of fanfare, but it is rare when my senses are so accosted by sound, sight and overwhelming personalities that the experience closely resembles trauma.
Last week Fuse Network came into our office to tell us what they've done, and what they're going to do. Fuse is a cable music network, so naturally they generated a little hubbub. For my taste, they went over the top. They handed out noisy little PDAs and flashed seizure-inducing images on the screen. Through the sound system, they piped Brittney, Fiddy', and Chingy, and at the helm an animated chubby man in a suit effused over ratings. To thoroughly confuse me, they brought a gospel choir into the room. They sang and clapped and danced around while the chubby man yelled and images of thongs and skateboards flashed on the screen. I felt sick.
Through the cacophony, I heard that we were engaged in a contest, and that clues were forthcoming. The prize - the PDA in our hand. I wanted the PDA, so I hunkered down and tried to listen. Soon, a video began to play of a small Asian man singing a Rickey Martin song poorly. Pictures of things flashed on the screen. These were the proposed "clues", but to what? What was the contest? What was the puzzle?
I was flabbergasted and angry because I wasn't going to win a PDA. In a room filled with dozens of television and advertising executives, I was surely the smartest one, but there was no way I could win if I didn't know the rules. How did they know what we were doing? Maybe they didn't. The music blared, the small Asian man jerked on the screen, the gospel singers danced, and the chubby man bounced at the head of the room.
The PDA said BUZZ IN, so I did. I pressed the face of the hand-held, and the music stopped, the video stopped, the gospels singers stopped, and the chubby man went ballistic. “Who buzzed in? Who knows the answer?”
“I did.”
“Tell us. What's the answer?”
All faces turned toward me- eager anticipatory faces, caught up in the fervor of the moment.
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.
The man was clearly upset. “Just follow the clues. FOLLOW THE CLUES!”
“But what do the...”
It was no use. Before I could finish, the music was back up, the video was rolling, and gospel singers swayed in their gowns
Monday, April 19, 2004
Men – the new women or “when did I become a Republican*”
Jedd Davis is a man, with man needs …
I just read an article in the New York Times called "The Bachelor and the Dust Bunny". It brings to light a recently published how to book for single men on keeping house called "Clean Like a Man: Housekeeping for Men (and the Women Who Love Them)". A 53-year-old advertising copywriter, who recently separated from his wife, wrote it. Well, bravo to this creative chap for capitalizing on the very en vogue emasculation of men, and taking it to the next level. Not only are men being cast away by silly psycho-marketing touts to that gender purgatory "metrosexual-ville," apparently, we have begun drinking the kool-aid. We are now writing books, FOR OURSELVES, on how to be better women (granted, it is in the absence of woman that this tome becomes required reading, but I'm not liking the trend here).
Let me try to break this down with a little history. Once upon a time – I don’t know, call it the 50’s – men worked all day, had a drink (or many) when they arrived home, and found a little time to pro-create on the weekends between sports telecasts. There was no question of whether or not this was proper male behavior, or “male behavior” at all – it just was.
Then in the sixties, it all started going to hell. Hippies, with their long hair and poetry and blah blah blah, came on the scene in droves. Ok, many macho men throughout history had long hair (did you see Lord of the Rings?), and true, many poets are sissies, but it’s hard to beat the 60s if you’re trying to hit the long-hair, poet, sissy trifecta. So into the early 70s, we have these girl-men whining about the war and demanding change via sit-ins. I’m not saying Vietnam was a good idea, I’m just saying long hair is not a prerequisite for protest (yeah, I know there’s symbolism with the long hair, just make pretend that I’m not really a smart guy, and that I’m allowed to completely dismiss a huge cultural movement in the US because I write for tin car).
So here we are in the early-70s and it’s starting to look good for men again with Tricky Dick in office conspiring and being all paranoid – now that’s a real man (if he only knew, like the Democrat presidents, that you could also add sex to that mix, he probably would’ve remained in office). But then in 1976 it gets all screwed up again as Jimmy Carter takes the White House. Am I blaming Jimmy Carter for metrosexuals? Why not?!
Thank god for the 80s. We get two world-class cocksuckers throwing their balls around on a global stage, with the fate of the world hanging in the balance. Men are back! Thanks Mikhail and Ron! Michael Douglas in Wall Street – are you fuckin’ kidding me? That’s what I’m talking about – manly men. But again, just as it’s heating up, men are accused of being too manly. Bush I embarrasses men by not finishing the job in Iraq, and ponytails start appearing again (I suspect some were tucked into baseball hats for years).
The nineties were interesting. Grunge was manly, but everyone had long hair again. Clinton, legend, was able to put it all together – soft on the outside, bastard within. Mix a little social reform with some minor wars/ass-kickings and voila, men just “are” again, like the 50s, and it’s grand. That guy really was the smoothest cat ever.
That brings us to the millennium. The last election gave us a choice between a sissy or a cowboy, and either way, men everywhere were going to lose out as a result. The cowboy went so off the charts, that society rebelled by turning the everyman into a woman. Even the Braun Towel guy is a sissy now. So, remaining men, let’s make a pact, right now, that we won’t talk about body scrubs, conditioner or spa treatments (even though we enjoy them so). We won’t write books for each other on how to clean the house. We won’t even share recipes, unless they involve cooking meat on a grill. From now on we’ll just go to work, have a few drinks, and make up stories about the sex we’re not having because there just aren’t any good women out there.
*The political views expressed in this article in no way represent those of tin car, which is generally moderate to liberal.
I just read an article in the New York Times called "The Bachelor and the Dust Bunny". It brings to light a recently published how to book for single men on keeping house called "Clean Like a Man: Housekeeping for Men (and the Women Who Love Them)". A 53-year-old advertising copywriter, who recently separated from his wife, wrote it. Well, bravo to this creative chap for capitalizing on the very en vogue emasculation of men, and taking it to the next level. Not only are men being cast away by silly psycho-marketing touts to that gender purgatory "metrosexual-ville," apparently, we have begun drinking the kool-aid. We are now writing books, FOR OURSELVES, on how to be better women (granted, it is in the absence of woman that this tome becomes required reading, but I'm not liking the trend here).
Let me try to break this down with a little history. Once upon a time – I don’t know, call it the 50’s – men worked all day, had a drink (or many) when they arrived home, and found a little time to pro-create on the weekends between sports telecasts. There was no question of whether or not this was proper male behavior, or “male behavior” at all – it just was.
Then in the sixties, it all started going to hell. Hippies, with their long hair and poetry and blah blah blah, came on the scene in droves. Ok, many macho men throughout history had long hair (did you see Lord of the Rings?), and true, many poets are sissies, but it’s hard to beat the 60s if you’re trying to hit the long-hair, poet, sissy trifecta. So into the early 70s, we have these girl-men whining about the war and demanding change via sit-ins. I’m not saying Vietnam was a good idea, I’m just saying long hair is not a prerequisite for protest (yeah, I know there’s symbolism with the long hair, just make pretend that I’m not really a smart guy, and that I’m allowed to completely dismiss a huge cultural movement in the US because I write for tin car).
So here we are in the early-70s and it’s starting to look good for men again with Tricky Dick in office conspiring and being all paranoid – now that’s a real man (if he only knew, like the Democrat presidents, that you could also add sex to that mix, he probably would’ve remained in office). But then in 1976 it gets all screwed up again as Jimmy Carter takes the White House. Am I blaming Jimmy Carter for metrosexuals? Why not?!
Thank god for the 80s. We get two world-class cocksuckers throwing their balls around on a global stage, with the fate of the world hanging in the balance. Men are back! Thanks Mikhail and Ron! Michael Douglas in Wall Street – are you fuckin’ kidding me? That’s what I’m talking about – manly men. But again, just as it’s heating up, men are accused of being too manly. Bush I embarrasses men by not finishing the job in Iraq, and ponytails start appearing again (I suspect some were tucked into baseball hats for years).
The nineties were interesting. Grunge was manly, but everyone had long hair again. Clinton, legend, was able to put it all together – soft on the outside, bastard within. Mix a little social reform with some minor wars/ass-kickings and voila, men just “are” again, like the 50s, and it’s grand. That guy really was the smoothest cat ever.
That brings us to the millennium. The last election gave us a choice between a sissy or a cowboy, and either way, men everywhere were going to lose out as a result. The cowboy went so off the charts, that society rebelled by turning the everyman into a woman. Even the Braun Towel guy is a sissy now. So, remaining men, let’s make a pact, right now, that we won’t talk about body scrubs, conditioner or spa treatments (even though we enjoy them so). We won’t write books for each other on how to clean the house. We won’t even share recipes, unless they involve cooking meat on a grill. From now on we’ll just go to work, have a few drinks, and make up stories about the sex we’re not having because there just aren’t any good women out there.
*The political views expressed in this article in no way represent those of tin car, which is generally moderate to liberal.
Friday, April 09, 2004
Lupe's Exodus
By: Ben Tiernan
Lupe inspected the play of shadow and light on her brother’s ashen face. She imagined a great fire in the distance casting red flashes across the trembling boxcar then drowning the room in shadow. The crimson morning sun revealed the nimbus of wild poinsettias as they passed her window. The air was still and thick with golden dust.
The year was 1919. Lupe was eight years old. Carranza ran the post revolutionary government, and Lupe, along with her brothers, Carlos and Condi; her oldest sister, Virginia; her sister Chayo; and fourteen other children from Culiacan were en route - north - to the United States boarder. At the head of this youthful army was Lupe’s mother, Beatrice.
Lupe watched her brother Carlos quietly. His eyes were closed and his blond hair fell across his face. The windowsill supported the weight of his head, and his slight body jerked as they crossed over the rail ties.
Carlos had been out all night with the other young men, and he was extremely tired. Beatrice scolded Carlos when he arrived at the train station happy and disheveled. She chastised him for his drunkenness and for jeopardizing their departure. Carlos suffered the tirade and winked at Lupe who peeked from behind her mother’s dress.
After the scolding, Carlos disappeared again. A throng collected as the children of the region awaited the train. The revolution had separated many families, and young children were joining their parents who had settled in the States, and older children were striking out to find work and prosperity.
Lupe’s oldest brother Leocadio was twenty, and he would stay back and tend to the ranch. He and Carlos had come under fire from bandits and revolutionaries while riding fences. The revolution was over, but there was no stability and the threat of violence to Beatrice and her children had driven them from their home.
Lupe bravely triumphed over her fear of the train. A fierce tremor preceded its arrival followed by a deafening cacophony of squeals, bumps, and thunder. Finally, out of a ragged cloud of ferocious steam, emerged the engine which struck Lupe as frighteningly biological – a steel Titan.
Inside the boxcar, she became ecstatic and completely overcome by the novelty of train travel. Everything about it was uncommon, modern, and exciting. Lupe believed that the elegance of her exodus set a precedent for her new life in the North. She waited in the car while Beatrice corralled children and fretted over Carlos who was still lost in the throng.
At last, the trumpets blazed, and a chorus of young mariachis stepped forward from the crowd. They were Carlos' gang of friends, and he stood proudly by them as they serenaded Beatrice and her travelers. Leocadio and Carlos stood side by side while the mariachis sang, until Carlos loaded the last of the traveling chests, and took his seat across from Lupe.
Beatrice cried and accepted the good fortune and gratitude of the families who gave their children into her charge. She held Leocadio until his pride gave way and he succumbed to her embrace. When she boarded the train, she carried a heavy wooden jewelry box filled with silver – enough, possibly, to finance their new beginning.
As the train pulled away from the station, Lupe heard the mariachis play her favorite waltz: Las Barcas De Guiymas.
Lupe inspected the play of shadow and light on her brother’s ashen face. She imagined a great fire in the distance casting red flashes across the trembling boxcar then drowning the room in shadow. The crimson morning sun revealed the nimbus of wild poinsettias as they passed her window. The air was still and thick with golden dust.
The year was 1919. Lupe was eight years old. Carranza ran the post revolutionary government, and Lupe, along with her brothers, Carlos and Condi; her oldest sister, Virginia; her sister Chayo; and fourteen other children from Culiacan were en route - north - to the United States boarder. At the head of this youthful army was Lupe’s mother, Beatrice.
Lupe watched her brother Carlos quietly. His eyes were closed and his blond hair fell across his face. The windowsill supported the weight of his head, and his slight body jerked as they crossed over the rail ties.
Carlos had been out all night with the other young men, and he was extremely tired. Beatrice scolded Carlos when he arrived at the train station happy and disheveled. She chastised him for his drunkenness and for jeopardizing their departure. Carlos suffered the tirade and winked at Lupe who peeked from behind her mother’s dress.
After the scolding, Carlos disappeared again. A throng collected as the children of the region awaited the train. The revolution had separated many families, and young children were joining their parents who had settled in the States, and older children were striking out to find work and prosperity.
Lupe’s oldest brother Leocadio was twenty, and he would stay back and tend to the ranch. He and Carlos had come under fire from bandits and revolutionaries while riding fences. The revolution was over, but there was no stability and the threat of violence to Beatrice and her children had driven them from their home.
Lupe bravely triumphed over her fear of the train. A fierce tremor preceded its arrival followed by a deafening cacophony of squeals, bumps, and thunder. Finally, out of a ragged cloud of ferocious steam, emerged the engine which struck Lupe as frighteningly biological – a steel Titan.
Inside the boxcar, she became ecstatic and completely overcome by the novelty of train travel. Everything about it was uncommon, modern, and exciting. Lupe believed that the elegance of her exodus set a precedent for her new life in the North. She waited in the car while Beatrice corralled children and fretted over Carlos who was still lost in the throng.
At last, the trumpets blazed, and a chorus of young mariachis stepped forward from the crowd. They were Carlos' gang of friends, and he stood proudly by them as they serenaded Beatrice and her travelers. Leocadio and Carlos stood side by side while the mariachis sang, until Carlos loaded the last of the traveling chests, and took his seat across from Lupe.
Beatrice cried and accepted the good fortune and gratitude of the families who gave their children into her charge. She held Leocadio until his pride gave way and he succumbed to her embrace. When she boarded the train, she carried a heavy wooden jewelry box filled with silver – enough, possibly, to finance their new beginning.
As the train pulled away from the station, Lupe heard the mariachis play her favorite waltz: Las Barcas De Guiymas.
Friday, April 02, 2004
My Kingdom For A Horse
By: Ben Tiernan
The Tiernan family is an old and respected clan whose majesty and charity have benefited countless women between the ages of 18 and 25.
The family fortune, true, is the foundation upon which is erected a Byzantine edifice of relations, in-laws, and illegitimate children, but this was not always the case.
We were a poor and meager tribe until a wealthy landowner took pity on my great-great-grandfather, Butterwinkle Tiernan, and bestowed upon him a thoroughbred horse as a replacement for my forefather's blind donkey - a beast whose incontinence was beginning to take it's toll on the landowner's prize hedge of roses.
Butterwinkle was overjoyed by the gift, and decided to name the steed after his beloved girlfriend. He dubbed her "The Sure Thing".
Butterwinkle spent the next six months training and conditioning The Sure Thing for the race season. The mare showed promise and Butterwinkle believed he stood to make a great deal of money once the race season began.
A week before The Sure Thing was to race her first race, Butterwinkle found his thoroughbred on the floor of her stable. Her eyes were glazed over and she lay incapacitated. Distraught, Butterwinkle brought in a specialist who discovered that The Sure Thing had colon cancer, and had to be put to sleep.
Saddened and defeated Butterwinkle made arrangements to have The Sure Thing put down. The veterinarian returned three days later with drugs to euthanize the race horse, and found that miraculously the cancer had gone into remission.
Of course the cancer scare had disqualified The Sure Thing from the race, but with the cancer in remission, Butterwinkle reentered his thoroughbred into the derby. At post time, the odds against The Sure Thing were ten thousand to one on account of the odds-makers misinformed suspicion that The Sure Thing was dead.
Apparently, the recovery was full because The Sure Thing went on to win the race by a nose and make Butterwinkle Tiernan filthy rich in just seven furlongs.
The moral of the story: Don't look a gift horse in the ass.
The Tiernan family is an old and respected clan whose majesty and charity have benefited countless women between the ages of 18 and 25.
The family fortune, true, is the foundation upon which is erected a Byzantine edifice of relations, in-laws, and illegitimate children, but this was not always the case.
We were a poor and meager tribe until a wealthy landowner took pity on my great-great-grandfather, Butterwinkle Tiernan, and bestowed upon him a thoroughbred horse as a replacement for my forefather's blind donkey - a beast whose incontinence was beginning to take it's toll on the landowner's prize hedge of roses.
Butterwinkle was overjoyed by the gift, and decided to name the steed after his beloved girlfriend. He dubbed her "The Sure Thing".
Butterwinkle spent the next six months training and conditioning The Sure Thing for the race season. The mare showed promise and Butterwinkle believed he stood to make a great deal of money once the race season began.
A week before The Sure Thing was to race her first race, Butterwinkle found his thoroughbred on the floor of her stable. Her eyes were glazed over and she lay incapacitated. Distraught, Butterwinkle brought in a specialist who discovered that The Sure Thing had colon cancer, and had to be put to sleep.
Saddened and defeated Butterwinkle made arrangements to have The Sure Thing put down. The veterinarian returned three days later with drugs to euthanize the race horse, and found that miraculously the cancer had gone into remission.
Of course the cancer scare had disqualified The Sure Thing from the race, but with the cancer in remission, Butterwinkle reentered his thoroughbred into the derby. At post time, the odds against The Sure Thing were ten thousand to one on account of the odds-makers misinformed suspicion that The Sure Thing was dead.
Apparently, the recovery was full because The Sure Thing went on to win the race by a nose and make Butterwinkle Tiernan filthy rich in just seven furlongs.
The moral of the story: Don't look a gift horse in the ass.
Checkout Vigilante
By: Jedd Davis
Now that the supermarket strike is over here in Los Angeles, I’ve started grocery shopping like a normal person again. At least that’s what I thought. As it turns out, normal people no longer know how to pay for their groceries. Seems they picked up some strange checkout behavior at Savon or Rite Aid. Or maybe it’s all the weird organic food they’ve been eating from Whole Foods or Wild Oats. Whatever it is, boy is it disheartening.
To get everyone back on track, I’ve developed a shopping list (he he) of things to ponder on your way to the supermarket, before all the neatly stacked cans and shiny produce hypnotize you into thinking you’re really an idiot.
Don’t write checks
Forget exact change
If you are waiting in line, you probably know you are eventually going to have to pay the cashier (unless you’re that guy in LA who tried to sneakily stroll out of the supermarket with a cart full of food). Stop reading The Globe headlines about how Osama turned himself in to comfort his lover, Saddam, in prison, and get your cash or ATM card ready
Watch the cashier scan things in, so you don’t have to check your receipt to verify that you saved 12 cents on that can of tuna (if you’re over 55 or wearing those weird sunglass/eye shields, you are exempt from this, the rest of us will just have to suck it up)
Don’t talk on your cell phone. This way, you can guarantee that the last thing you think before you float up to heaven won’t be “I can’t believe it was a can of cranberry sauce to the temple.”
Of course, some blame has to rest with our democratic society that champions choice, and breeds technological innovation (and it’s wicked stepbrother, impatience). Surely technology killed the express lane. Back in the day, “under 12 items” could probably be covered with cash money. Now everyone is using ATM or credit cards so they can fly to Katmandu for free in 7 years (business class). That’s a bummer, so I have some suggestions for the supermarket industry, since I doubt people will adopt the above anytime soon.
Have a cash only lane. You can even combine it with the express lane – bonus!
Make a better machine to handle ATM or credit card payment. You zap everything else with that laser gun, surely you can just zap the back of my card
Cashiers should keep telling me to have a nice day; it always makes me feel like you really care.
Now that the supermarket strike is over here in Los Angeles, I’ve started grocery shopping like a normal person again. At least that’s what I thought. As it turns out, normal people no longer know how to pay for their groceries. Seems they picked up some strange checkout behavior at Savon or Rite Aid. Or maybe it’s all the weird organic food they’ve been eating from Whole Foods or Wild Oats. Whatever it is, boy is it disheartening.
To get everyone back on track, I’ve developed a shopping list (he he) of things to ponder on your way to the supermarket, before all the neatly stacked cans and shiny produce hypnotize you into thinking you’re really an idiot.
Don’t write checks
Forget exact change
If you are waiting in line, you probably know you are eventually going to have to pay the cashier (unless you’re that guy in LA who tried to sneakily stroll out of the supermarket with a cart full of food). Stop reading The Globe headlines about how Osama turned himself in to comfort his lover, Saddam, in prison, and get your cash or ATM card ready
Watch the cashier scan things in, so you don’t have to check your receipt to verify that you saved 12 cents on that can of tuna (if you’re over 55 or wearing those weird sunglass/eye shields, you are exempt from this, the rest of us will just have to suck it up)
Don’t talk on your cell phone. This way, you can guarantee that the last thing you think before you float up to heaven won’t be “I can’t believe it was a can of cranberry sauce to the temple.”
Of course, some blame has to rest with our democratic society that champions choice, and breeds technological innovation (and it’s wicked stepbrother, impatience). Surely technology killed the express lane. Back in the day, “under 12 items” could probably be covered with cash money. Now everyone is using ATM or credit cards so they can fly to Katmandu for free in 7 years (business class). That’s a bummer, so I have some suggestions for the supermarket industry, since I doubt people will adopt the above anytime soon.
Have a cash only lane. You can even combine it with the express lane – bonus!
Make a better machine to handle ATM or credit card payment. You zap everything else with that laser gun, surely you can just zap the back of my card
Cashiers should keep telling me to have a nice day; it always makes me feel like you really care.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Auto-Neurotica
I've decided not to get a car because I can't afford the payments. I don't consider life without a car much of a set back. The commute on the bus is fine, I can still get around the city in cabs, and there is one less thing in my life that can catch fire.
There is the added benefit of not paying tons of money for things that I'm not sure exist. I paid hundreds of dollars to have my alternator adjusted and it was still antisocial.
The only problem is that girls don't like it when I don't have a car, and I worry about what girls think. You see, I'm not really a take it or leave it kind of guy. I'm more like, take it or I'll change for you.
There is the added benefit of not paying tons of money for things that I'm not sure exist. I paid hundreds of dollars to have my alternator adjusted and it was still antisocial.
The only problem is that girls don't like it when I don't have a car, and I worry about what girls think. You see, I'm not really a take it or leave it kind of guy. I'm more like, take it or I'll change for you.
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