What's In A Name?
Posted: Mon Mar 26, 2012 10:36 am
I have never named a car. Even though I anthropomorphize every thing in this Universe, a name has never made any sense to me for a car. The Road Warrior only came about because over the years I have been asking hundreds of people "is your car a weekend putterer or is it a road warrior?" as we decide what level our Itinerant Air-Cooled day is working towards, and everybody looked at my car and agreed well, it had to be a road warrior. I never referred to my own car as Road Warrior, "good morning Road Warrior, let's get to Montana."
But I bought/inherited a bus with a name, The Ruptured Duck, and it just. doesn't. work. for me. The bus in question has spirit, like all of my cars seem to have, and it is much more like a nice huggable beige brown jersey cow (who nonetheless kept kicking me all the way across the country, like I was some sort of disrespected milkmaid).
It is a step away from its ruptured past of various ruptured repairs and ruptured exhaust system that was killing me off with monoxide, and its ruptured exhaust seats, and it is not that kind of a car when it all gets sorted out. It is a slow meandering soft brown bovine cow that somehow manages to get where its going when you're not quite looking, "is that . . . a cow? up there on the mountain ledge?" Even though it has early tough steering and no power brakes, it has a more female quality than either of my later buses ever did/do. I don't get this, maybe because it requires me to have manners out on the interstates, and the other buses were more ready to get scrappy in the left lane? I don't know.
So, for some weird reason, this bus is Chloe, the cow who best not kick me this summer . . . or I WILL turn you into hamburger.
Chloe? No kicking. Good cow, here's some clover.
But I bought/inherited a bus with a name, The Ruptured Duck, and it just. doesn't. work. for me. The bus in question has spirit, like all of my cars seem to have, and it is much more like a nice huggable beige brown jersey cow (who nonetheless kept kicking me all the way across the country, like I was some sort of disrespected milkmaid).
It is a step away from its ruptured past of various ruptured repairs and ruptured exhaust system that was killing me off with monoxide, and its ruptured exhaust seats, and it is not that kind of a car when it all gets sorted out. It is a slow meandering soft brown bovine cow that somehow manages to get where its going when you're not quite looking, "is that . . . a cow? up there on the mountain ledge?" Even though it has early tough steering and no power brakes, it has a more female quality than either of my later buses ever did/do. I don't get this, maybe because it requires me to have manners out on the interstates, and the other buses were more ready to get scrappy in the left lane? I don't know.
So, for some weird reason, this bus is Chloe, the cow who best not kick me this summer . . . or I WILL turn you into hamburger.
Chloe? No kicking. Good cow, here's some clover.