They Egg My Car, I Turn the Other Quarter-panel

For some people a car is an extension of the self. It's an iconic symbol of their inner desires and fears. Some want to go fast. Some want to feel safe. Some may even want to seem as though they are more well-endowed than they actually are (still cannot get over the Hummer [It's almost as though we're on cultural steroids]). But for many of us, a car is still primarily and most importantly a tool used for transportation. Sure, it can help get you laid, save your life in the event of an emergency, double as a house, or whatever. But there was definitely a vote somewhere around 1906: horse-and-buggy or automobile. Had it been a vote on style, I'm afraid Henry Ford might not have become the household name he became. Nor would I have gotten laid on the night of November 12, 1995 at approximately 10:18. Just kidding. It was November 13. Just kidding.

Not that I ever owned a car that could have gotten me laid. Which is not to say that I can't be gotten laid. I can be gotten laid by lots of things. Once, my microscope got me laid. Seriously. No, seriously. And now that I'm getting into electronics, they're practically throwing themselves at me--to which I reply, "Ladies, ladies, please. Don't make me get out my Tesla coil." But anyway, I never owned that kind of car. I wish I had a story to tell about my 1981 Datsun 310GX and Susie-so-and-so. Or about my 1982 Toyota Tercel and Ms. what's-her-name. Or better yet, about the threesome in the back of my 1987 Ford Festiva with purple and pink frilly pinstripes (As if you could even sit three people back there!). Thanks a lot, Henry! How's the soy treatin' ya?

I won't, however, deny that a car may be, in some instances or regards, a true extension of the self that owns it. I have some friends who really feel that a car's sleek design, performance, and maneuverability show the rest of the world that those qualities are a natural extension of the owner's personal refinement. Whatever, dude. All I know is I got a 1995 Mazda Protege with some bad teeth, if you know what I mean. I'm sure the innards are in disarray. Gonna break down anyday now. Better call a doctor. But yeah, an extension of the self. Since I took ownership of mine, it's got a dented hood, a busted window, then, plastic wrapped around that window's door for about eight months, paint damage from vandal key-markings, and now, the final insult--egg--on the front left quarter-panel. Perhaps needless to say when sporting a week's worth of untrimmed beard growth: I still haven't washed the egg off my car and it's been a few months (I think [I mean, it could have been there a lot longer for all I know {What day is this?}]).

Now, some of you may be thinking, tsk-tsk (others of you may be thinking, that's a lot of parenthetical notation). More likely, you're asking me, where's my self-pride. Well, we'll get to more on that some other time. But for now, allow me to submit another calculation altogether. Suppose the vandals believe that other people think just like them, that belongings (and cars, particularly) are somehow intimately tied to the owner's sense of self, so that by defacing them, they, the vandals, are directly wounding the pride of the owner. And the vandals' belief would be vindicated by the owner's reaction if the owner's pride were so superficial as to be wounded by such an act. Now, suppose the owner had this calculation in mind, all the while not washing his car of the egg, but instead, actively denying the vandals their satisfaction of seeing the symbol of his wounded pride, a cleaned quarter-panel.

Now, you might say, a cleaned quarter-panel would show defiance to a vandal; that it would show him he cannot win. I'm sorry about your misfortune. The vandal sees a dare. And they're usually as up to the challenge as any Hummer-driving, middle-aged, suburbanite mom. You cannot defeat vandals. It's only a question of how sweet you are going to make their victory. A "loss" by your terms is a victory in theirs. It's like terrorists. You cannot defeat them once they've made up their mind. At best, you can proactively promote conditions that tend not to breed terrorists, and not respond as they'd hope, with undue attention to one's pride or semi- or equally-as-blind violent retribution on masses of innocent people.

With that at least partially in mind, I decided not to wash it off in my own display of defiance; my pride resides somewhere deeper, where their random acts of violence cannot penetrate. No, the egg is not on my face, my friends. It is on my car. But, you know what? I'm gonna turn the other quarter-panel.

Of course, on the other hand, it may just be that I'm a lazy bum full of self-delusions...



© 2005 George Czar