Big Car

I went and saw Big Fish last night. It is quite good and I have to admit that I enjoyed it more than what I thought I would. This is not to say that I thought I wouldn't, I just couldn't comprehend Tim Burton and colour. It got me thinking about the role of stories in our lives. Being the simple sort of chap that I am, I'm rather fond of stories on a simple Dave level. But above and beyond that stories still perform an important function within our lives. They help define and shape us and who we portray to the wider world. I think everyone has a number of largely true stories which we relate to others in order to help them understand who we want them to think we are. The story we tell is important, as is the context of who we're talking to, and where the story is told. I happen to have a number of weird and utterly me stories. I'm blessed and cursed with a capacity to have weird stuff happen around me. I could be sitting in a park bench in the middle of a grassy field with nothing around and something would happen. A plane would fall out of the sky, a tree would fall over, or a small bunny would start humping my leg. I haven't seen a bank robbery yet, but expect to do so later.

Anyway, I thought you might enjoy this true story. Some of you might have heard it before, because it has had a rather wide audience due to its inherent coolness. You can hear/read it again.

I'd parked my car on the road outside my Idris Rd flat last year. This was my new and lovely cool car (94 Corolla) that I had just received. I'd also just sold the world's most expensive to run and bad car. I swear that Holden did more to destroy the ozone than Bush and Cheney combined. It was late and I'd just got back from uni so I was probably mildly grumpy in spite of the awesomeness of my car. Went up to bed and slept the sleep of the damned. Was woken in the morning by my flatmate, Neil, who told me to go outside and move my car. I didn't really understand him, but seeing as that was nothing new, I went to move the car anyway. It was bright and sunny, although still reasonably cold as it was August or September and the summer that hasn't really arrived (save for that drought) hadn't arrived. The brightness annoyed me the most so I used some of my sophisticated vocabulary to express my disappointment at having my retina pierced by such a harsh light. This tirade of sophistication continued when I saw that the council had painted a bus stop around my car. We'd had no notification that something like this was going to occur, and subsequent investigations by Mike helped us determine that the bus stop painting was heard by our neighbor at approximately 5am. I have to admit that on one level I was impressed by their handiwork. They had managed to paint completely around my car without spilling the rather unfashionable yellow bus stop paint on my fashionable blue non-bus stop car. The tirade of elegant and sophisticated language continued as I went back inside and upstairs to get my keys to move the car. No-one likes a bastard who parks in a bus stop. It's like an asshole who parks in the invalids car park, or pregnant women's car park when they're only a few months pregnant or male. I was still feeling pretty sleepy as I went back into the light and harshness that was that day. What I saw next, however, shocked me to the core. The council had painted around my car. That was fine. That was even kind of cool. What was not cool was that they had painted around my car and then given me a $40 fine.

Much like Celia, I was: If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down.