It’s not every day you get to live a lyric from a KISS song.
(Fair warning: If you’re not accustomed to my writing style, you should know up front that it can be convoluted, contain obscure references to stupid things, and veer off into strange directions at the drop of a hat. Don’t say I didn’t tell you.)
I like my neighborhood. Truly. It’s a peaceful place, for the most part. Sure, we have a larger-than-usual number of people who seem to think a four-wheel-drive golf cart is the coolest vehicle since Speed Racer’s powerful Mach 5, but apart from that it’s a nice place to live.
As many Americans who live outside the state of Indiana are aware, the time changed recently. It’s now past dark (close to dark-thirty) by the time I get off work, pick up the Tiniest Minion of Sauron, and get to my neighborhood. This is a key point, as you’ll see in a moment.
There is a main street that runs through our subdivision, dividing it roughly in half. I have to travel down this main street approximately halfway before turning onto a side street to reach my house. The houses on the main street are generally nicer than those elsewhere in the neighborhood, with one glaring exception: they apparently don’t have any carports or garages.
See, people who live on the main street tend to park their vehicles by the curb, on the street. I honestly don’t know why. Maybe it’s a status thing. “We’re Main Streeters, and we don’t have to abide by the traffic laws!” Maybe parking on the street is a way to indicate to their neighbors just how huge their penis is. Maybe their garage is stuffed full of Faberge eggs and they can’t fit their cars in. I dunno.
The upshot is, driving down the main street in our neighborhood can sometimes remind one of skiing a slalom course. If I have any of the Minions of Sauron in the car with me, I will sometimes pretend we’re in one of those exciting car commercials as we twist and weave our way down the street. Although the exciting car-commercial music doesn’t have as much impact when you’re only going 15 miles an hour. Plus, I’m driving a 12-year-old Mazda 626, which just doesn’t scream “sexy.” It kinda warbles “paid for,” but that’s about it.
(Toldja I’d ramble all over. You can’t complain now. You were warned.)
Anyway, last night I’m driving into my neighborhood. As I top the small hill near the entrance, about a quarter-mile into the subdivision, I’m faced with an interesting sight: There’s a truck parked on the side of the road ahead of me. MY side of the road. Facing me. And (this is the best part) it’s headlights are on. Bright.
My first reaction, of course, is to break into song. In a moment, I’m Ace Frehley of KISS, and I’m belting out a portion of the “Detroit Rock City” lyrics: “There’s a truck ahead, lights starin’ at my eyes … Oh my God! No time to turn …” The Tiniest Minion, firmly buckled into his car seat behind me, burps in appreciation of my musical knowledge and quick thinking.
The thing is, though, the truck’s lights are not going out. I had assumed the driver of the truck had just pulled to the curb a moment before, and was about to kill the engine (and the bright lights!) and get out, perhaps walking in a swagger due to his massive penis. This wasn’t happening. No, the truck was just squatting there, glaring with its lights. Right down the street. Right into my eyes.
I could barely see. I slowed from my devil-may-care 15 miles an hour to a more cautious 10. As I got closer to the truck, I slowed down even further. Surely, I thought, yon idiot will realize he’s blinding oncoming drivers. Surely.
Sadly, it was not to be. Yon idiot wasn’t able to turn off the lights, because yon idiot was getting two kids out of the passenger side of the truck.
Stop and think about that a minute. The truck is parked facing the wrong way. So, the passenger side is now in the middle of the road. This genius is blinding oncoming drivers while unloading kids into the road. I slammed on my brakes when I saw the short blurry form dart in front of the truck’s headlights; I was only about 20 feet away at this point. I had moved to my left, into the wrong lane, to edge around this truck. I was suddenly sure that a child had run into the path of my car.
Fortunately, that wasn’t the case. The kids were getting out of the truck and running in front of it to the house. They were showing a bit more sense than the adult who was driving the truck; at least they stayed close to the body of the truck and didn’t ramble all over the road when they got out.
As I crept past the truck, night vision completely shot, just praying I didn’t run off the road or meet an oncoming car, I rolled down my window and shouted “YOU GOTTA LOSE YOUR MIND IN DETROIT … ROCK CITY!” Just to, you know, tattoo the person with an obscure indictment of his actions without doing anything that might cause him to beat me about the head and shoulders with his massive penis. And my 2 1/2-year-old child, bless him, shot the truck driver a bird.
(Okay, actually, neither of those things happened. All I did was mumble under my breath a little, while the Tiniest Minion amused himself by pooping. But it woulda been cool, wouldn’t it?)
I stopped at the next intersection (which, thankfully, was only about 50 yards away) and waited for my eyes to readjust before continuing. While waiting there, I realized what had been playing on the radio while I was going through my 30 seconds of irritation. You’re not gonna believe it, either. “Detroit Rock City.” Isn’t that amazing?
(Okay, actually, it was Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up.” But that does nothing whatsoever for the story, so pretend it was “Detroit Rock City.” Or “God of Thunder.” Or “Shout It Out Loud.” Anything but Rick Astley, who, let’s face it, is never gonna inspire a line to be shouted at an obnoxious or inconsiderate driver. At best, his singing will inspire the Tiniest Minion to poop, but that’s about it.
Man, Rick Astley music sucks.)