I drive a 1993 Toyota Camry.

In case you haven't noticed, I like to start every My Thoughts with a
one-sentence, straight to the point, hilarious statement. I figure it
doesn't really get much better than that.

I've mentioned my vehicle in the past, usually in embarrassing
anecdotes while cupping my hand around my eyes. It's not a bad
vehicle. It always gets me where I want to go, assuming the place I
want to go is the stop sign down the road then a mechanic's waiting
room for six hours.

I was 15 before Louisiana changed its driving age from 15 to 16. I'm
that old school. I was a freshman in high school at this time and I
didn't really want a license. I figured it was pointless because I
was, at the time, lacking two major things one associates with making
driving around a better experience. This included a girlfriend and the
ability to reach the pedals. Oh, and also a car.

The years that passed before I finally decided to get my license
served as training sessions. Unfortunately my mother, a short Italian
woman, was my primary instructor.

"Drive defensively," she'd tell me. "Also, say the Rosary and eat meatballs."

As important as these tips were, the most important lesson I learned
from my mother was to alienate every pedestrian who walked near the
car by pressing the absurdly loud automatic lock button. As though it
was something subtle. But I always knew they heard it. My mother drove
a Lincoln Towncar, which meant the locks were controlled by a 7,000-PSI
piston. The pedestrians always gave this disapproving look as my
mom rattled on about feta cheese. To my mom's credit, though, she only
did this to unsavory characters who looked like serial killers. Like
people holding Big Gulps. Or people who were missing teeth. One time
the Louisiana Ice Gators walked by and my mom's car door exploded.

I still keep this tradition alive today, but I only loudly lock the
doors for people who look completely harmless. I especially like to do
this when, say, a sorority girl wearing a cardigan walks by. They tend
to walk in groups so I usually get a two- or three-hit combo.

It's best to do this in the mall parking lot or while stopped at
crosswalks. I imagine that, as the girls pass my car, their
conversation goes something like this:

       Harmless Girl: I think "The Notebook" is better than "A Walk to
       Remember" because...
       My Doorlocks: *KA-CHUNK*
       Harmless Girl: I lost my train of thought. Let's listen to Ginuwine.

The first ever accident I got into was my sophomore year of college.
Unless you count second grade in Miss Polk's class in which I had an
accident on Jacob Comeaux's construction paper. I was driving down a
winding road and the car in front of the vehicle in front of me decides it's
going to slam on its breaks and turn left. As though there's ever anything
good to the left. The SUV in front of me, a Carnival cruise ship with
wheels, goes from 30 to 0 in less than a second. My car was too busy
trying to remember the lyrics to "The Freshman" to stop in time and
slammed into the luxury liner. The SUV was fine because it was made
of titanium and lava. My car limped away from the accident looking
like Eric Stoltz in "Mask."

Insurance helped with the repairs and today my car's as good as 1993's
warped idea of new. Even though I live in a place college students can
afford, I still don't own a car alarm. This is mostly because nobody
pays any attention to car alarms. I think the whole reason car alarms
exist is that nobody wants to steal a car that has a car alarm. Car
alarms tend to operate completely by whim or whatever they think would
be most annoying at the time. In my experience, car alarms mostly are
set off by:

       1. Airplanes
       2. Nothing
       3. Tim Landry sleeping

When a car alarm goes off, someone in a business suit always runs out
of a building, presses a button, then order is restored for about four
more minutes. Pretty annoying. I must admit, though, that that car
alarm remote control reaction sound is awesome. You know, that little
"CHIRK-chirk!" noise. The only noise I enjoy more is when a police
officer in his car makes that quick "bwoop-BWOOP!" sound with his
siren to scare people making out in a car in Girard Park. Not that I
know.

OK, I'm running out of room, so if you'll excuse me, I'm going get
ahead on responding to all that hate mail I'm about to receive because
I didn't mention "Message in a Bottle."

©2005 Tim Landry