There’s always something to howl about.

A quick, random thought

It’s not that I couldn’t somehow get my hands on a late model Ferrari if I really wanted one (and I doubt I’m any different than most happily married men of my demographic in this regard). After the divorce, I’d simply have to move in with relatives, liquidate whatever is left for 100 pennies on the dollar, then slap down the balance on American Express between billing cycles, that’s all. With the proceeds I could probably score a pretty decent off-lease, if not road worn,  Enzo Berlinetta…in the least desirable color—with stock rims. I’m just saying.

I want one, but ideally…I want one 20 years ago.  (Actually, I’ll just take the 20 years ago and you can keep the Ferrari and this whole real estate business.)  A 32 year old Realtor in a Ferrari is a Bad Ass but a 52 year divorcee old living at home with mother is….well, just plain sad—especially when forced to park a high mileage phallus behind her Subaru in the driveway. (God how I hate that Freud.)

So this middle-aged guy zooms into my rear view mirror on the freeway entrance ramp last evening, hesitates for a double-bump tach rev,  then screams past me on the right in 1st gear. He was neatly tucked into a couple hundred thou of  handcrafted, precious scarlet metal and buttery cowhide.  His straw gray, combed-over tonsure hovered in the breeze above a sun-chapped bald spot. A rose gold Chopard watch, with matching cuff links, deflected all remaining rays of Envy as he dissolved into the North Shore Chicago smogset.  Judging from the pink gold blur, I pegged his left wrist alone at around 50 grand. Clearly, our little speedster’s got more jack than any man knows what to do with. His engine sounded like an amped-up Joe Satriani guitar riff in the dusky ether.  His license plate read RAINMKR. I’ve been behind this ass clown before.  He used to double park his banana cream Bentley at a renowned Viagra Triangle watering hole during happier hours. Must have gotten a divorce. If he got a red Ferrari then somebody got a house. You can bet on it.

I mentally counted the remaining months on my forest green 2006  BlahsMoW X3,  followed immediately by my own marital blessings–bountiful, to be sure.  I surmized (once again) that I have a personal mortality with which to wrestle and I don’t need anybody elses.  But…. if I did get the opportunity to be RAINMKR  for a day I’d probably hawk the pink watch if for no other reason than to see the look on the pawnbroker’s face .  Then I’d  go right  back to my wife where I belonged…..but not before doing 185 (that’s when the rear wing is actuated to maintain the downforce of 775kg) on the way home; just like in that song I sing to myself every time it comes on the radio.