I have a long list of personal deficiencies, those that know me well certainly do not need me to point them out for them. One of the things I most known for in my town is having a perpetually dirty car. In fact year in and year out, one vehicle or another, I believe that I have the dirtiest car in Fallbrook.
You see, I live miles out on a dirt road and have spent approximately 62% of my life down one dirt road or another. Two trips a day on said road makes things pretty dusty. If I cared (and I don't) and wanted to keep the thing clean, at the cheapest do it yourself carwash, let's see ...figuring... three bucks a day, would add up to a little more than a thousand bucks for a year. Lot of money, lot of work.
I'm not going to do it. Have no one to particularly impress and better things to do with the money, not to mention time. But in a more and more wealthy and tony Fallbrook, I stick out like a curly haired bohemian at a klan rally, which come to think of it, is about right. I am sure that it has not helped my social standing one bit in this land of mercedes coupes and lexuses and immaculately manicured ranchettes.
The reason that I bring the whole matter up is that I read this article about a Fallbrook Sheriff's Deputy who got an award for tracking down lawbreakers and miscreants. Deputy Evan McCormick is quite good at tracking down stolen cars. And how does he spot them?
“It’s just driving around and running license plates mostly,” said McCormick, who has been with the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department for more than nine years. “You drive around and look for a car that looks like it’s out of place. It’s dirty or cobwebbed and just doesn’t belong. Run plates all night long and you’ll find cars.”Now I am not suggesting that my dirty car smacks of criminality, I'm certainly no angel, but I had never made the nexus between my dirty van and being a lawbreaker. The whole time I thought I had been projecting soccer mom.
I drove up to Malibu to deliver a painting to day, after a quick stop in Brentwood. Driving down Wilshire I really felt conscious of my sloven appearance. Young hip men and beautiful women in tight pants that ended five inches above the ankle, no socks, looked at my dirty rig like I was the second coming of Jed Clampett. I tried to stare straight ahead in my shame, my Falltucky sticker now almost unreadable under a thick veneer of dust.
No longer fit for civilization, he's reasonably intelligent and occasionally funny but did you see his dirty car? Do you think he's a criminal?
After ten years of writing this blog I know a few things. I check the analytics occasionally, know how many people are reading what. And I have to tell you, you people are sick of politics. Music you like, in fact it outpolls politics three or four to one. Pretty pictures you like. But my political opinions? You'd rather get a contagious case of whooping cough.
I don't blame you. It's an onslaught out there. Too real. We are all sick of it. I hear you. Going to dial it down unless there is an absolute imperative. Like this. If you aren't interested in reading it, no point talking to myself.
I'm not sure what they blew up on Camp Pendleton this morning but have never heard anything that loud in thirty seven years. They had a noise alert so it was planned. My guess is a bunker buster or a MOAB. Sounded like a giant industrial explosion or bombing.