June 27, 2008

 Is my heart dying fast or am I just living? Am I missing something? Should I embrace what I haven’t? I should work harder, drink less, and try to move in a direction that is more honest? But when you do what I do, well..

Evening Commute Drink Club

The first rule of evening commute drink club is that you do not talk about evening commute drink club. The second rule of evening commute drink club is that you do not talk about evening commute drink club.

This should be obvious.

The third rule of evening commute drink club is that you do not talk or text on your cell during ECDC. You only have two hands and to be toooo greedy, well, that hazard speaks for itself. CHP is in a deep budget crisis and they are just looking for an excuse on the 405, the 110, the 10, the 60, the 105, and of course the 91. Besides, you will probably say something you truly regret to the friend or lover who jilted you years a go (which you keep in your contacts for this very reason) but don’t press those numbers. It can but open another can of worms for you to deal with on top of keeping your car in the proper lane.

Leave it.

The fourth rule of ECDC is to always use an inconspicuous container. A Bud Ice can screams stop me for I want the attention and drama of getting caught. If you are still in this stage you do not belong in ECDC. Make you way home and lay your head in your Mother’s lap. If she is no longer around, search out the legally youngest friend you have and split a six of Zuma and tell them all about it.

The fifth rule of ECDC is do not give into the temptation of checking out your fellow motorist no matter how hot or insane or rich they may be. There is only one reason to take your eyes off the road during ECDC and that is for the world-shattering occurrence of a dog or cat darting out in front of you.  ECDC is hard-pressed to give advice in this triptych so suffice it to say hurt yourself before you hurt others (or your cocktail)

The sixth rule of ECDC is do not, no matter what high school anthem comes on the radio or you manage to punch up your Ipodwalkman, turn up the volume to murderous levels. The desire to lip-sync, or even worse, start dancing in the saddle only attracts unwanted attention and we all know where that leads to while sipping on a Nail Bomb in a plastic gator-aid bottle; jail, or worse.

A word to the wise. More to come.