That is the question I ask myself whenever I see a Hyundai commercial. Yes, I know that Jeff Bridges is a man, and The Dude is a character. But, when I hear that voice, I can’t help but think of how a new Hyundai would really pull the room together. If you look in my driveway tonight, you’ll see how compelling that argument really is. Our old Saturn, Blue, was falling apart. At 8 years old, she was way past warranty. The struts rattled incessantly, the Saturn dealer had told us that was standard. Ole Blue’s check engine popped on and off at random and the mechanic said it had to do with a part that turned the check engine light on, which is an expensive and unnecessary replacement. So we lived with it. Over the past two months, we’d been scanning other cars, checking them out in ads, looking them up on the web, sneaking glances at them while we drove down the street. It felt illicit and to be sitting in my trusty car and lusting after a new one. This blue sedan had ferried me back and forth when I lived in Santa Clarita and worked near LACMA (that’s about 50 miles, in LA traffic). She had moved us from the Valley to the Sea. Blue was the car that had carried sick Weasel and Munchy to their vet appointments. That was the backseat where I had curled into a fetal position on the drive home after getting food poisoning at a wedding in Northern California. There were traces of my eye-liner, mascara, lip-gloss and a variety of lotions and sunscreens wiped under the driver seat. She has a indentation in her hood from my butt, from when I thought the...

Jerry Garcia died the day I left Albany for good, August 9, 1995. In an apparent murder-suicide, he took my childhood with him. (NOTE TO MILLENNIAL FUCKWADS: I don’t want to hear how old you were in 1995. Whether you were in Middle School, Elementary School or Diapers, I don’t want to know about it. And wipe that patronizing “listening to Grampa Simpson tell his Lollapalooza Mosh-Pit Stories for the 10,000th Time” smirk off your soul-patched, hipster side-burned, weasely little face. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the suckers who showed up too late to the Great Global House Party of cheap gas, music videos and nuclear anxiety that was the 20th Century and arrived just in time to mop up the puke, save the polar bears, and recycle our empties to pay for healthcare. Have fun with that, kids. Hey- if you’re lucky, maybe you can scrape out a little resin ball of Contentment from the huge bowl of Prosperity we smoked last century. That was some gooooood shit.) Anyhow, I always felt like by dying right as I left my hometown for the Big City, that Jerry was looking out for me, protecting me from myself. It’s like he was saying: “Hey man, I know you’re moving to New York to follow your dreams and that’s groovy and all, but it’s going to suck major dog-balls for the first few years, so, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to go ahead and die That way, while you’re telemarketing credit cards to old people who can barely afford the minimum payment, or cleaning toilets in comedy clubs for stage time and tips, or getting turned down for that sweet job at Brookstone (fucking personality test- I was this close before they made...

Okay, apparently Japan is no longer satisfied with just having Hello Kitty on EVERY POSSIBLE THING. The tourism ministry has made the mouthless wunderkitten an official ambassador for Japan. A much better choice than some crusty Japanese politco, methinks. Now all they have to do is make Chococat the Prime Minister, and I’ll officially love everything about Japan*. By the way, this all happened back in May. But apparently I wasn’t paying attention then. Just in case you weren’t either, read the NYT article here. *Except the high prices, the unchecked homeless problem, and icky Japanese businessman on the make — but other than that — I’d love...