Tear Out That Rear view Mirror- There's Nothing Left to See

A few weeks ago I was hanging out outside of a party in Goleta with my friend John when we heard a loud rumble coming up the street. Its source revealed itself in short order: a mid-nineties Camaro with an aftermarket exhaust. The rumble could be heard for over a block and the driver managed to set off a car alarm or two as he pulled up.

“Dude that's a sweet car.” said John.

“No it's not, it's a piece of shit." I said. The thing is probably worth about $3k. All he did was put a Flowmaster on it.”

“Really jackass? Something tells me you can't buy the front passenger accessory for $3k. Well, you can't anyway.” said John.

He was right. The Camaro's passenger emerged: a leggy blonde with long flowing hair, perky but not too big breasts, and an ass you could bounce silly putty off of. She was clad in a tight tank top and a short sarong, but it didn't really matter what she was wearing- certain women can look good while wearing a potato sack, and that's exactly the sort of woman she was. Krista was Hot.

Krista was the first girl I asked out when I got back to Santa Barbara, which, as luck would have it, was about a month after I found out my now former girlfriend of three years back home had cheated on me. The result of this endeavor was about what you'd expect: I made an awkward advance and she took it in stride by making up some lame excuse. I resumed my usual weekend routine of watching Deep Space Nine and drinking Miller Lite. This is what I figured would happen, but she was Hot and I had to attempt to make a play. The only practical move at that point was to lay low and play it cool. I still told John about it, of course.

“Don't beat yourself up too much man, your pickup truck just can't compete with that.” he said.

…..................................

In the summer of 2003, the Dodge I took to college was regularly shitting out on me to the tune of around $300 a pop. I was a sophomore at the time, and I needed more reliable transportation. I sold the Dodge and had about eight grand to spend. My father recommended something Japanese that got good gas mileage- something practical. Being a dipshit nineteen year old, I didn't listen to any of his advice. I scoured the want ads for a car that met two criteria: It had to have 8 cylinders, and it had to be a convertible.

Two weeks later I was the proud owner of a red 1994 Mustang GT convertible. At eight grand, it wasn't particularly valuable. But the paint job was sharp and when I bothered to wax it it was a pretty sweet ride. The V-8 was powerful enough for me to pull plenty of idiot stunts in the car, from fishtailing on command to doing 140 mph on Hwy 1.

The interior was tan leather, and it was an impressive car for a young college kid. The convertible soft top was the perfect car for a beach town, and many dates were impressed with it. I won't parade my college conquests around (well, not in this entry anyway) except to say that if necessity is the mother of invention, then the guy who invented the convertible car must have needed a good way of convincing blondes aged 18-21 to go for a ride.

Unfortunately, owning a ten year old car that I constantly pushed to its limits finally caught up with me a few years later when some friends and I drove it cross country. The poor engine started overheating when driving it through the Mojave desert, and it was never the same after that trip. In 2005 I sold it and bought my pickup truck.

…..................................

The driver of the Camaro got out. Other than being tall, he was wholly unremarkable. He was in decent shape, but there are plenty of guys with narrower waists, broader shoulders, and larger biceps. The only thing he had going for him, really, was the carefree attitude that only comes when your biggest concern is how you can remove the tank top from the impossible blonde sitting next to you on the way home.

“Actually John, I used to be able to compete with the Camaro. In fact, I would have won that battle decisively.” I said.

“Yeah, why did you get rid of the Mustang? That was a sweet car.” John asked.

“Well, the same reason why we got rid of a lot of awesome things when we became twentysomethings. I got rid of the Mustang because it was too impractical.”

How Did We Get Here?

"Twenty six is a rotten year. You’re not an adult by any stretch, but you’re way past college jackass. None of the things you really want to say, think or do are acceptable."

-PhilaLawyer

Santa Barbara is a beautiful place. The beaches, the bars, the women- on its surface, it's everything anyone could ever want out of city and then some. Many people go to college here. The UCSB experience has been aptly described as four years of living the way rich people get to spend two weeks a year if they worked hard enough. Alas, all good things come to an end and eventually we find ourselves thrust into the real world. Once the hangover of four years of debauchery subsides, we ask ourselves, "What the fuck do I do now?"

Some of us, like myself, make coming back our goal. And now we're here, except there's one problem: Our biggest concern is no longer figuring out who has the best drink specials while we blow off that Monday afternoon class. We actually have responsibilities that matter now, and it sucks.

Chasing the dream of being young, dumb and drunk is a futile effort. You want to close down Joe's on a Wednesday like you used to, but that 8am meeting with the Director of Whatever looms. Furthermore, you can't shotgun twelve beers then take shots like you used to without some serious payback the next morning.

If you're anything like me, most of what you want to say or do would be considered wholly unacceptable by polite society. You stifle yourself on a regular basis to keep up appearances. If the people at the office knew the real you, you'd not only be fired but possibly run out of town.

Meanwhile, the hard bodied frat boys who are only in the beginning stages of a beer gut and the glowing sorority pixies whose asses haven't yet been crammed into budget model office chairs for 8 hours a day are a regular reminder of what has now passed you by. In exchange for that, you contribute to a 401(k) and watch Mad Men. But none of this can really put out the fire in your belly, and your case of Peter Pan Syndrome is acute as can be. How can you deal with this? In this case, I've chosen to write about it.

If you're a twentysomething in Santa Barbara, this blog is for you.