Warui Onna (The Bad Girl) - 1984 Mazda RX7.

    Growing up with my parents there was one thing you could always count on and that they would always be late. Very Late. So late you could call it by my new name - punctually retarded. To be waiting only a few minutes for one to show up would be a cataclysmic phenomenon of epic proportions that would have kittens and baby seals mating in harmonious fashion producing a world of cuteness that would be fueled by rainbows and summer daises. But alas this was not my world. My world then was spent with my eyes grazing over minute and hour hands wondering if my parents remembered if they even bared children.

    Determined to rid these chains of this oppression, and despite my best efforts at winning the lottery, I entered the workforce.  Working 2 jobs 7 days a week for minimum wage that summer I had just had enough to buy my first car, or a round trip plane ticket to Tijuana, just. One would think that such an individual who's worked so hard for so little cash,  would do some research about the car he wants to buy. Nay I say. Back then thinking was not my strong suit and my brain barley had 10% control of my thoughts which it needed to support basic motor function and any diseases I may encounter in my travels.

    So where does one even begin? Unlike today where a simple stroke of a keyboard you get over a thousand results of cars for sale or girls looking for a good time in your area, back then it was spread by word of mouth, the local buy and sell, or seeing a "for sale" sign on the windshield. Barely able to complete full sentences when talking to the opposite sex, I decided to ask for my parent’s advice on the topic. Naturally like all good parents they try to steer you towards the "safe" domestic cars such as a Dodge, Ford, or GM, you know, the girl next door - the one who may go to your local church, get straight A's in class, and who wears Sunday dresses. I do fancy Sunday dresses on women, but being 18 with hormones and booze making the majority of my decisions for me, I picked up the first pretty girl that caught my eye, and took her home that night. A 1984 Mazda RX7. In metallic brown.

    There is something mysterious about Japanese girls, an X-factor, something sexy, some might even say taboo. Being a small town Canadian teenager their Asian beauty is even more tempting. One might argue that it’s not hard for one to standout if they are the only koi fish in the pond. True, but like all men it’s in our genetics to be attracted to things that bounce, dangerous extracurricular activities, and flashy/foreign objects.  One cannot deny nor turn away from their petite size, smooth body lines and great rear end that calls out to you and says "com'on big boy, you know you wanna go for a ride!" She would be the girl you bring home to meet the parents wearing nothing but a low cut tank top, a plaid miniskirt, with knee-high stiletto boots sporting colored sex hair. The type of girl your parents would just love to hate and the one they would warn you about...trouble. And she was all kinds of it.

    Now a rookie to the game, and like all first relationships you tend to ignore the early warning signs, look past their imperfections and quirks, and for a short while enjoy pure, utter, blissful ignorance.

Sure she has a dent here and a little bit of rust there - nothing some surgery couldn't fix.

Low Ride height? I like crawling on my hands and knees to get out, plus the neighbors already think I'm an alcoholic.

Gas gauge doesn't work? No problem. There's always a gas station nearby and she'll let me know when she is upset with me by not moving.

Engine makes a little noise? Bah, it’s her just whispering sweet nothings in my ears.

Check oil light always on? She just needs more loving.

Hard to start? She’s just playing hard to get.

Blows a little bit a smoke? She’s just letting off some steam; I should take her out more often.

Or so I thought.

  

    After a couple of months the beer goggles were off and I soon realized that the Asian beauty I have fallen in love with was really Mothra out to destroy my heart, and my wallet. My wallet (Godzilla) wasn't big enough to take her on. Every time I decided to take her for a spin, they would have an epic battle of prehistoric proportions to see who would win. Caught in the middle, would be me, poor Tokyo, who, with every confrontation between the two, gets demolished. They started fighting once a month, then once every two weeks, then every week, soon sadly every time I went out. And just like the movies, in the end Mothra wins and Godzilla gets dragged out to the sea, and the hard earned money soon washes away.  Nobody tells you that you have a high maintenance girlfriend until you can no longer afford to keep her. Breakups are hard but the first one always hurts the most. With all trials and tribulations, I cannot say anything bad about her though. After all, she was my first manual gearbox experience, she drove me to my first year of college, picked up my first long term girlfriend and because she broke down so often I fell in love with working on cars. So it wasn't all bad. There's plenty of fish in the sea... 

Rio or Bust - The 2004 Kia Rio.

    With the Pregnant Roller-Skate out of commission, and no car yet for the old powertrain, I am forced into the world of the rental cars. Such a wonderful idea thrashing about in someone else's vehicle without the fear of breaking something. And if something did break, they provide you with a new car for a second go. All of this is grand if you’re the one choosing the car. But being a 24 year old male with Molson Canadian flowing through my veins, I opted for the 2004 Mustang, having owned the previous fox body. Denied. Well how about the Mitsubishi eclipse? Denied. Or the Subaru Imprezza WRX? Denied. Apparently it seems that the insurance company of the girl who turned my car into a Picasso had a say in what I was renting. The new Chrysler 300? Sure, But all are rented. Blast. What do I get? We have a new 2004 Kia Rio for you. Well that’s just ducky.

    Now born and raised under a roof of Mopar or no car, my parents over the past few years just barely let in a Japanese vehicle under the roof.  Just. I too was just as suspicious of a new Korean car as I was of eating raw fish. So with my guard up, and coat buttoned, I headed down the winter roads Canada is known for. My first reaction was to test the brakes, or the lack of. My grandmother of 75 could apply more pressure on the front end of this turtle to slow it down than it could under its own power. This is fine, because the second you try to step on the throttle to give her more gas, the season has changed to spring. This quality made it equally important because if someone were to walk out in front of you, you would have a better time steering a Dutch barge than you would the Rio.

    To distract you from the cataclysm that has presented itself in your lap, you’ll also notice like in Rio it’s hot - Very hot. At one point you’ll think the very engine has caught fire beneath your feet, thereby preventing you to step on the gas pedal or brakes and in turn starting the chain of events all over. You will also be the only one on the winter roads with the windows rolled down and AC on to prevent yourself from being roasted like a stuffed pig.  Too bad my old Dodge diesel doesn’t have this problem.

 

    Also I wasn't aware that we were at war with the Koreans. It was a silent attack upon our shores and before we knew it, they were here...in numbers. Just like bird flu the numbers seem to spread although I have a hard time understanding why. Surely you can blame it on madness, or a brief moment of insanity. Although it must have affected enough of the population that now it’s a common sight amongst the sea of sedans. After one go in the car I felt like driving it through the very front window of the rental place from which it came,  which I could have done, if it weren't for the fact they have 10 others there waiting for me when I got out of the car. So, to all those that currently own a Kia Rio, or are thinking of buying one, I suggest you go see a doctor for a checkup.

The Pregnant Roller-Skate - 1991 Pontiac Firefly.

    Back when I was going to college I worked three jobs to support my partying habit. Most of it as you would suspect was spent on booze and women but I did manage to save up enough money to buy a car that was both fun to drive and economical but in my budget of fewer than 5 grand. Two out of three ain't bad. It was a 1991 resale red Pontiac firefly but in a convertible format. Now you might say I was mad and blame it on the hormones and copious amounts of alcohol and I couldn't agree more. I couldn't imagine how bad it looked until I let my best friend take it for a spin down the street and realized that my brother in law was right. Laughing how it was a "chicks car" He coined the car (like he does with all my cars) the pregnant roller-skate. No matter. It was my first convertible I had ever owned and I wouldn't let him take all the fun out of my car. But it got worse.

    To defeminize the car I did what all adolescent adults do - I stuffed her with two 12" subs and fed her 1200 RMS of pure pulsating bass. This combined with the metal symphonies of Metallica and Guns and Roses would deliver a message of saturated manliness. The new plan worked until I realized not only did no one notice my car, but now it has everyone's attention.

    It came with a great safety feature on it as well. You could go to work, hop out of the car, leave it with the top down, and it still will be there to greet you out the door, like that neighbor kid who always wants to cut your lawn - even if he had just cut it yesterday. And to add to that fact, any man that dared to mess with your car wouldn't bother as he too out of fear, might be the one blamed for owning such a feminine car just by standing next to it.

    She had a 1 point slow liter engine in it, but with the top down, and the cool wind blowing in my long hair, I felt like Thelma and Louise, without the lady parts. Like all my great ideas at the time happened at the end of happy hour, I decided to not cut my hair until I got my Journeyman ticket. In hindsight this just added to the overall picture I was projecting on the road. It did however attract a large portion of the male population to speed rapidly to my side, only to speed twice as fast when they realize the brunette they have been chasing sports a goatee.      

 

    Just like Undergrads TV series my convertible days would be short lived. One night driving about, a 17 year old girl decided she would improve the roller skates behind by smashing the front of her car into it. And she was right. There is no better way to end my delusion than rendering the car inoperable. Without a car and a minor payout from her insurance company, I am forced to transplant the drivetrain into something with a little less estrogen...  

Determining Blood Type

I was talking to the wife the other day and the topic of our blood types came up. She reminded me that she had already let the blood clinic know she was unable to give blood for the next 9 months. I never really thought of it but I guess pregnant women don't give blood seeing how they are already donating it to another human being. She is O negative. I know this because I have heard it many times before. I noticed that people with a rare blood type love to let you know they have a rare blood type.  I'll bug her that it’s not as rare as AB negative.  She gives me the stink eye.

I chuckle.

I for one have no intention of giving blood or receiving it in the near future and thus do not know my own blood type. I once asked my parents if they knew what my blood type was and instead all I got was lesson in the Greek alphabet. "You’re a  A, B, no wait a O,  E?" No matter, I figure that one day if I wake up and notice that my pancreas has decided to part ways from my internal organs,  and join the liver parade, I will call the Doc up, and  he'll fix me up, and send me on my merry way. Simple.

I prefer to a have an older doctor, one that looks like Gandalf the White not Gandalf the Grey. I want the man that fought the Balrog to the lowest dungeon of Moria and climbed the endless stairs back out. Someone who has seen the lowest, darkest, dirtiest, most rotten infested pits of mankind and has survived. One that has been around it long enough at this point in his life he could probably just look at you and go "He looks like an A type, hold on, look at the way he's leaning on that bench,  He's a B, Ya, defiantly a B type."

Then I wonder.

Can Vampires tell what blood type you are? And if they do, do they complement the blood like a sommelier? On the same note do they compare our blood to different regions of the globe like fine wines? And does age matter? How would that conversation go?

Draconis - "Here taste this blood its type B negative, just brought in from California, a boy aged 18 years!"

Paul - "Was he from a city or the valley?"

D - I dunno, city I believe"

P - "Hmmm I prefer the valley, city folk age quicker"

D- "Age quicker?  He’s the same age regardless of where he lives!"

P - "Ya, but stress."

D - "Stress?"

P - "It makes you age quicker."

D - "No it doesn't."

P - "It does."

D - "No it doesn't. I don't believe that. I cannot"

P - "It’s true just ask Harry."

P - *yells*"Hey Harry!"

P - "Last week he brought a girl in from New York aged 26 years, tasted like 46"

D - "You’re joking."

P - "No wait just ask him - here he is"

Harry - "Hey guys what’s up?"

P - "I was just telling Draconis here about that girl you brought in last week"

H - "The one from New York? The O positive that tasted like twice her age?"

P - "Yeah that’s the one."

D - "Ridiculous." 

H - "I do apologize. I thought I picked up a fresh college student, but after the tasting I decided to look in her wallet and I discovered she’s been a paralegal for 5 years."

P - "See stress."

D - "Oh Shut up.”

H - "On a "positive" note she was a blood donor" *laughs*

D - "Ugh. I don't believe it."

H - "No its true, see here is her donor card."

D - "No I meant how a woman aged 26 years can taste twice her age."

P - "It's the stress of city"

D - "No it’s not. There is no undead way you can taste the stress. It's Untastable. No taste!"

P - "Tastes gamey."

D- “Impossible!"

H - "No I do agree with Paul here. I usually avoid picking up strays in the city for the very same reasons I also avoid farmers. To earthy for me."

D - "Earthy? What a person does with their life does not affect the taste of their blood."

P - "If you don't believe us just ask Eric the Red over there."

D - "No don't ask-"

P - *Yells* ERIC!

D - *sigh* "I hate that guy"

H - "What’s wrong with Eric? He’s good people."

D - "He's just vulgar...all the time. I don't think he can go a single sentence without making our kind look bad."

P - "I like him."

D - "You would."

Eric the Red -"Whazzzzup motha fuckas!"

D - *rolls eyes*

E - "How’s my favorite blood sucking bitches?! haHa!"

P, D, H - "Hey Eric"

E - "Whatcha fucking stalkers talking about over here?"

H - "We were trying to explain to Draconis here how certain people taste differently depending on their occupation"

E - "Bwahaha Fuck Me D, how long have you been a count for?"

D - "I'd rather not. And again for the record, it’s impossible to taste any sort of vocation, regardless of stress. Age, ect. ect. We have like 8 flavors, 8! There's no more to talk about. That's it. That's all. Done. End of discussion. Fineato. Finished."

E - "Obviously you didn't taste that sad excuse for a fucking 26 year old that Harry dragged in here last week. That plasma has gone Souwa!"

P - *Chuckles*

E - "Take fucking chuckles here, he will only hunt the living on the beach because he thinks everyone else tastes too-"

P - "Gamey"

E - "Right Gamey. And fucking Harry here will only sample women in fear that the blood of men will make him turn gay."

H - "Well it might."

D - "What? No! There is absolutely no way shape or form that drinking the blood of men will make you gay. Even if it comes from a gay man."

E - "Me on the other hand could give two shits whether it comes from a living man, woman or child, just as long as it’s fresh."

D - "Finally. Now somebody is talking some sense."

E - "Oh except redheads - I can't take’ m."

D - "Can't take’ m? What do you mean you can't take’ m."

E - "I'm allergic to them. That shit coagulates my blood worse than that time Paul "accidentally" flew into the back of that mixing truck! Ha-ha"

P - "Not funny."

D - "That's it. I've I had it. I can't take this anymore. I can't handle this BS. I'm done. I'm out." *turns into a bat and fly’s away*

P - "Why did you have to go mention the cement truck incident? Now he's buggered off."

E - "Fucking chillax, could be worse, I could have told him about that beaver mascot."

H - "Do tell!"

P - "No!"

E - Oh man! My bloodsucking friend here one night drank about 14 pints of cows blood that turned,  He got so fucking hammered that he tried sucking the stuffing out of the beaver mascot at the local high school."

P - "That's enough."

E - "Oh man, He couldn't figure it out, he just kept sucking and sucking! Ha-ha"

P - "Stop it."

E - "Hahaha *tears up* the look on his face, ha-ha Fucking priceless! Ha-ha"

P - "You’re such a dick."

H - "Hahaha"

*end*