I'm writing this from a house-sitting gig. This house is not idiosyncratic enough to have a nickname, but it does have an amusing little dog who looks like a frog. She's curled up next to me right now, passed out from her whirlwind of tappity-tap dancing on the linoleum when the Keelhauler and I came back.

My band played today--one of our odder gigs, in that it occurred during daylight and outside. Two little girls tumbling and doing cartwheels in front of the stage added to the mayhem, and in honor of their youth, I refrained from addressing the audience as "motherfuckers" and blurred the line "I will set your ass on fire." I am a fucking sell-out pansy-ass motherfucker, I really am. What would Jim Morrison have done? Well, that's immaterial, because he's been dust for thirty years.

The gig was a grand opening celebration of a guitar shop, and had a bunch of bands playing for free, but I can't say I came away empty-handed. For one thing, there was also free beer, which I believe may have led to the second thing I came away with, which is not comestible, but which is a BMW, the car kind.

This car is one I've admired around town for a couple of years, as it is a very close relative of a car I once owned, a 1984 633csi named Valencia. She was the car I drove from San Francisco to Tucson, my resentful cat curled up in the passenger seat next to me, to begin a new chapter of my life. I loved that car. I did not love Tucson, but that's another story. Or stories.

And anyway, back to this car. It is a silvery blue 1987 L6 with a white leather interior. It is, like most everything I'm attracted to, impractical. (The Keelhauler adds: "Utterly impractical." He also then requested that I exempt him from the heading of impractical, but I cannot, I cannot.) See illustration:

ILLUSTRATION

(sister ship)

Think what you will, O practical owners of Hondas, Jettas, Camrys. I am stuck in a world of impracticality. It is true that only today, on the way to the gig, actually, I discussed with the Keelhauler the sensibility of trading in my '93 Volvo wagon for a new car that, in my mind, would be 100% reliable and reasonably priced. I don't know what car that would be, but I'm sure one exists.

And then, a few short hours later, I was suddenly the owner of a 1987 BMW L6. Cirrus blau. Between the seats in the back is a flip-up refrigerated compartment that holds three cans. That is practical, right? Who doesn't enjoy a cold beverage on a long car ride?

And I miss my old car. I wrote a song about it, and our great epic journey (not really). (But I really did write a song.) I am tired of my soccer-mom Volvo station wagon, when I am neither a mom nor a soccer enthusiast. I feel leery of identifying too strongly with what amounts to a mass-produced and -marketed hunk of steel and electronics, but there is a matter of style at stake. I know every argument against buying the car--I experienced them when I owned Valencia.

I have a general curiosity about why I am so impractical, mixed with the understanding that I have less interest in the safe and secure than I do in the unusual, the exotic, and the occasionally unreliable. Although I might state otherwise, I have an idea that my love of the impractical represents a greater faith that things will turn out all right.

Speaking of unusual, exotic and occasionally unreliable: the Keelhauler wishes to say that the most overused word in the English language is:

Amazing

He also wishes to add that the most underused word in the English language is:

Remarkable

I don't know if I agree with that. I use the word "remarkable" regularly. I don't know where he's coming up with this. We're just sitting here, drinking wine, having a nice evening at this house-sitting gig with no nickname, and all of a sudden, he's all, "PUT THIS IN YOUR BLOG." And I do it, I do it. (Did I mention he is paying for the car?)

Anyway... anybody want a ride?

Star of the day. . .Keelhauler