Twinklin' lights and The Throwing of Caution into the Wind

I often criticize and rarely recognize the overzealous appreciation for safety.  I believe in my heart that we live in a completely neurotic and dreadfully fearful society; you hear about it everyday in our politics, in the air and on the roads.  A general need for the building of self-esteem through braces, cameras, airbags and BPA-frees.  I can not help but wonder if we haven't all become a bunch wimps.
On a recent car trip into the the twinkling of Christmas lights, I was the driver of a vehicle that was overstuffed with small children and adults - one car seat.  We were shredding paint and burning rubber at the maximum speed of a whopping 2 miles per hour.  My daughter and her two friends merrily enjoying the seizure-driven twinklings of merriment for which I was willing to shill out of pocket 12 bucks.  Oh, it was beautiful.  My daughter wanting to throw her body on top of the middle console and her friends bouncing recklessly in the back of the Crusher, my foot cramping.  And then we came to the end - toll with Santa Claus and two police cars. 
My dad would not have thought twice about this back in the 70's.  No airbags.  Cold beer in a cooler.  Fishing poles.  And the open road screeching tires with his buddy George riding shotgun, and my brother Danny, and George's kids all in the back of the pick up truck on what must have been the most flea infested mattress.  Flying headlong to a remote location - we wrestled, as the truck teetered inches closer to a permanent nirvana at every passing mile.  They had beer, and we had our mouth's painted a vibrant electric purple on Welch's Grape Soda, and all of us, I believe were loaded, and either ready to fish and camp or just pass out from exhaustion.  We pulled off at some remote location.  Both my dad and George held cigarettes dangling out of their mouth like they were characters in an Andy Capp comic strip.  They's pour a little gasoline into a hole throw on a couple fat branches for kindlin' and WHOOSH - Now that's a fire!
They were there.  They knew (not considered, but knew) we were all gonna be fine.  A hospital was bound to be somewhere if we blew up or something.  These fathers back in the day, were Vietnam Vets - tough as nails and they wanted an experience for their kids - who as it turned out never went to prison, enjoyed the bumps and occasional pain often associated with being stupid (like setting up a plank and brick jump in the middle of the street - no skate parks with mandatory helmet ordinances)
I understand why these laws exist.
Lawsuits.  Not because some greasy politician cares about your kids - there's money involved.
So I drive out of the merriment of those bright colors with the kids quietly huddled in the back.  We all waved happily and nervously at Santa.  And got up to speed to get back to the other car.  The kids survived - but then again, there is always tomorrow.

White Lightning or: How I stopped being Politcal and Learned to Enjoy an American Automobile

There were no doubts or questions anymore - at nearly 180,000 tired miles and squeaks, groans, vomitous noises from who knows where, we decided to sell the "SilverBullet".  She was a very slick 1997 Infinity I30 with all of the leathery bells and whistles.  I purchased that treasured piece of mechanical decency and comfort while selling Lexus automobiles, at just below 92,000 miles, and my beloved and I enjoyed it for seven years. 
She was the second car I owned, and unlike the first car - Eurotrash Saab -it ran nearly perfect throughout its existence with me.  the previous owner banged it up pretty good, and repaired it to the best of his capabilities, but after years of PA weather, the SilverBullet became long in the tooth.
Japanese cars.  They manufacture the best cars and motorcycles on the market.  I know bikes.  I owned about 9 of them (currently riding a British Triumph) and they were all world-class racer types; all made in Japan.  I sold Japanese vehicles.  Bullet proof.  So my first thoughts for a new vehicle were just about anything Japanese, and there was no possibility for an American hunk of crap with their puddles of oil and their utter lack of sophistication.
Why the hate?
Politics perhaps.  Bad stories.  Unions. 
An auction friends and I went the distance on finding the appropriate vehicle for my family and on the list was Japan and Germany, but no American.
Ford maybe.  But there was simply no way that I was going to buy GM (Government Motors).
Why?
Bruce assured me time and time again, and perhaps because of his age and he kept forgetting things, that Chevy made a good car.
Maybe he did not understand - I wanted a great car for a "good" price.
Even my "I know a guy" buddy, Chad suggested a one. 
I thought there was dung between his ears, he has an even more conservative ideology than I do.  he knows cars though... hmmm
But the bailouts, the UAW, lumpy image of insignificance, obsolescence and arrogance of yesteryear...
But what about Bruce?  Chad?
Politics?
And then I thought about it.  I hate the bailout.  The unions and I will never get along in our ideology.  And the whole American car underdog thing, kind of weighed in on me. 
I have a big ol' Kolache Crusher - Chevy Tahoe that has been pretty good to us, minus the whole AC creature comforts and the ever deflating tire issue, but that danggone thing will run over a one of those moronic Smart Cars like a white-head pimple in a pair of dirty digits.  Probably survive the impending nuclear war that I am so paranoid about too.
And then there are the people who work for Chevy and Ford.  They are still working in spite of their unions.  They could have been and should have been dissed by the CEOs, but they were not. 
So at $6000 I bought a 2002 Chevy Impala.  Cloth.
Okay.
It's a good car.  Good.
"Hey I had one of those.  One of the best cars I ever owned - really fast!"
Thank you Curt.
Now I like it.  An endorsement through experience - I needed that.
Politics aside.  I bought "Made in America".  and to be frank, I probably should have thought that to begin with.

Things get Fuzzy

I have a rage issue, and to top it off, I am probably paranoid.  Kristi knows about the paranoia - noises, things that go bump, odd words and looks, the blinker on the old lady's car in front of us.  And while some people may consider a little vigilance, or caution to be good, I handle some of these things, in my opinion, a little irrationally.  A knife out of the drawer of the kitchen cabinet, a sword with a gruesome looking skull carved into the hilt.  Consider jumping out of bed in the middle of the night ready for a fight at a strange sound.
What was that?
Don't know...
The door?
The back door?
Go see.
The rage issue though is a nuance to this paranoia.  As a young boy I had it, used it pitifully, losing all inhibitions for my own or any others safety, generally a pretty loud, primal-entity fuzzing up my field of vision and carrying weapons like stones and sledghammers - far too heavy for a boy.  Now though, in my forties with a wife and daughter, a business that at times can be all consuming, a bit of boxing and kickboxing training, a blackbelt in Aikido - I am growing nervous as times to release frustrations are limited that it will come out.  And it has not here in this town and not with anyone that you my good readers would know, but it (the rage) is an ugly devil.
I was once in a fight after 9/11 - more emotionally charged, but it turned.  I had a knife at my chest - a sharp butchery-looking thing.  I grabbed it, throwing it to the floor.  Things got fuzzy, and though I never physically retaliated, I saw something that scared me perhaps more than my opponent. 
The Devil. 
I saw myself in those eyes - talking slowly, breathing hard.  Cruelty incarnated into what this other person saw as a reason, justified and ready, to suffer horribly.
I turned away.  Perhaps God had other plans.
It almost came out again recently.  I walked before any devil could come out, but my language became a little flowery - and I hate that.
The problem is this: It's going to come again.  And I need a valve.  I pray for it.  I have been looking for an old punching bag again - stuffed and heavy.  A gym - a real one that lets guys beat the snot out of each other like they were meant to - to prevent war, death.