"Guitarmageddon"

When I was in high school, I drove a mint green Chevy Celebrity (similar in shade to this vehicle), which had been decommissioned from the Forestry Service, thus explaining its unparalleled stare-inducing potential. At least five times a week someone I knew would tell me that they'd spotted me while out driving somewhere, but that I didn't see them. I was flagged down on the interstate, dirt roads, in parking lots and even out of state because of my instantly spottable mode of transportation, and those that didn't know me still felt the need to take a peek at the "Green Machine" — and every smartass in the world thought he was the first to suggest that as a nickname.

As a side note, the person to whom I sold the car (a longtime friend and former employer) lent it to his brother to use. I later found out that this sharp-as-a-doorknob brother used this very noticeable green car in a string of armed robberies. Smart fella, huh?

Although the car I drive now is indeed green, it's a much more subdued shade and doesn't stand out in the slightest — well, except that it's almost the only foreign-made car in our neck of the woods that's packed with Fords and Chevys. But, I still seem to be attracting attention and stares when out and about, but not because my car wasn't Made in Amurrrica.

Now that I think about it, this could have something to do with Connor's insistence that we "play along" to the music on the car stereo. He usually pretends to play the drums and demands that I play air guitar along with the tunes, but sometimes we'll swap just to keep things interesting.

It doesn't help that, because my windows are tinted, Connor is basically invisible in the backseat. I'm sure it looks like I'm having some kind of histerical meltdown in the car by myself — my own personal Great Gazoo that no one else can see. (By the way, I think the tellers at the bank drive-through assume I'm talking to myself, because they never send candy for the kid back through the pneumatic tube.)

So there I am, driving down the road, hooting and hollering with my arms flailing about at Connor's behest while receiving all sorts of odd looks.

But it's alright. I look like an idiot on my own just fine all the time anyway. Having Connor to use an excuse works just fine for me.

I guess if I'm going to do this I'd better do it right.

Time to call in the professionals...