Thoughts Under Smog and Glass. (Pt. I)

(Note. This blog entry features Mel-related profanity and rambling insights. Those with tender sensibilities can stay away and spare their virgin eyes.

Also, keep in mind that this isn't your standard chintzy-ass gloss piece about tits and demo terminals. It's more like the WGU's version of Conrad; very thick reading and not for the light of head or heart. Those looking for a fluff bit narrated by some cornball web editor trying to dry-hump his fifteen minutes of fame would be better off sucking on the coverage from IGN or any of its hundred or so clones.)

"Your Hyundai is ready, sir."

And so it got underway. Standing in a deserted car rental dive a few blocks east of Los Angeles International airport, lungs already withering under the carcinogenic cocktail that constitutes the afternoon sky. This is a moment that's been a long time in coming; a return to roots, a full circle, a murky journey into the optimistic unknown. Flies buzz and swelter against the front window and its stitching of packing tape, the little guy behind the counter gesturing over my shoulder at one of the half-dozen squat Accents tuned up in a conga line out in the lot. The choices are SAT simple: silver, maroon, navy blue. Grandma colors.

"Which color you like?"

I chew on it for a long moment.

"Actually, you got any of those Spyder convertibles available for the next few days?"

“Sure. Though just so you know, those cars cost substantially more than our economy model.”

Yeah. It's going to be that kind of trip.