The Pursuit of Fast

Anyone who saw previews for "Talladega Nights" saw the clip of little Ricky Bobby saying "I wanna go fast!" Anybody who saw the entire movie regrets it, or damn well should.
Thousands of times in my life I've thought or said this exact thing. But why? Why do I want to go fast?
Now a little story about a car I owned, those who know can skip ahead. And if you think you know, trust me. You know.
When I was 19 I saw an ad on Autotrader.com for a car similar to one my dad had owned a number of years back.
*Side note: My dad had a silver 1984 Porsche 944 which I had grown up with for a number of years. My dad let me move the gear selector when eating Wendy's cheeseburgers, and I experienced my first 100+mph in this car. It had some expensive problems and he sold it to our asshole neighbor for a loss.
I decided I would skip my classes for a day and cruise down to Santa Cruz and test drive this ridiculously cheap supercar. Upon arriving at the gorgeous home of the man selling the car he explained that he was getting divorced and needed to sell the car. Bummer for him, awesome for me. The first time I drove the car he told me to redline it. We were driving uphill on HWY 17 in the Santa Cruz mountains and upon hitting 3rd gear (at 70) I thought I had separated some important part of my neck from the rest of me due to the raw power this little German car possessed. I was hooked. WAY HOOKED.
Against the advice of those around me and the inherent financial instability that has been the last decade of my life, a white 1988 Porsche 944 Turbo became mine. Those in the know call it a 951. I was in the know dammit, and wanted to go fast. I somehow conned my cavemanish father into loaning my upwards of $5000 for said purchase and proceeded to exchange cold hard cash for a four wheeled, two doored really-motherfucking-fast car. I made the 70 mile drive home in 15 minutes less than my girlfriend who had driven me to pick up the car. I hit 130. I almost shit my pants. I did a burnout at every intersection (party due to the fact that the whole "clutch" thing was new to me at this point). Upon my arrival home I took Robert Cheifetz for a drive and he promptly declared, upon exiting a turn at 70mph: "My asshole is so clenched right now."
Most people know these stories. I tell them whenever and wherever I can, much to the annoyance of others and even myself.
Like the time I went 125 down Alhambra Ave. (speed limit 45) Remember that one Tie Clinat?
Or the time I hit 155 mph at 3:45 in the morning (with bald tires).
Or the time I raced a Corvette on the freeway and smoked his ass by passing on the shoulder in a turn at 90+.
It's amazing I'm not dead or in jail. No, really.
Three months and three weeks after buying it, my dad rolled it at more than double freeway speed. I haven't gone 100 MPH since.

Those of you who skipped ahead can rejoin here.
Rewind and/or fast forward, depending on where you are at this point.
So, why do I find myself desperately wanting to blow several thousand dollars to do all of this again? The speed, the cost, the police, the heartbreak, the showoffness, the feeling like James Bond? Why dammit, why?
For those of you who have never "gone fast", this may sound like crazy talk. No, 100 is not "fast". Sure, it's fast, but not "fast". Fast is when if you blink you're in trouble. If a cop saw you you'd go to fucking jail, or he wouldn't be able to catch you. If you hit something you might die. If you drove over a pothole or swerved you would lose control. Imagine driving freeway speed through a parking lot. Now, make all of the cars in the parking lot go 65 and maintain the idea that they appear to be sitting still. I don't recommend you try this in a Ford Taurus or a Toyota pickup. In fact, DON'T TRY THIS. The recklessness of it is ricockulous. If you get pulled over doing 100+ with another person in the vehicle in the state of California, you can be charged with attempted murder. If your mom saw you she'd kill you. So why does a large portion of the young adult male population feel this urge? Why is it that if I won the lottery the first thing I'd buy would be a 1998 Porsche 911(993) Turbo S? Because I want to go fast.
There is some sort of monster that marches through my veins screaming "FREEDOM!" and is only released when the tires can barely hold on. It's kind of like a mix between having sex and being arrested. The erotic feel of pavement vs. rubber, the thrill of the chase, the climax of redline. The fight or flight, the fear of using the brakes because of the awkward instability it might create. The absolute terror of seeing the turn come at you too fast, the split second decision making that determines whether you thread the needle or slam on the brakes. An emotion that you don't know you crave until you feel it, and like a crack whore taking a hit, will do anything to feel it again. The speed and respect/control it requires is just awesome, and the ultimate adrenaline rush.
I thought maybe I'd come to some sort of conclusion when writing this. I was wrong. I just crave 200!
It's a good thing I drive a Honda because now I'm all worked up.
Back to schoolwork. I'll update about the kilt thing soon...

Thoughts on kilts?

Shockingly, my mother hath purchased one UtiliKilt for mineself on the occasion of mineselfs birthday. Said UK is to be worn frequently in pursuit of what am I told are called "women". This is foreign to me, but the damn thing is actually quite comfortable and fits well.
One word: Freeballin'
You. Are. So. Jealous.
My bits and pieces (all nine of them) have never been this free. It's like cross dressing without dressing like a woman. And I get to wear my steel-toed boots which make an extremely satisfying thumping noise whilst walking.
The website, utilikilts.com, has a guestbook where every third guy claims female attention generated by this thing is overwhelming. Ladies: thoughts?
Now, I'm a little guy and not intimidating, except to small rodents and children, and might get my ass kicked wearing a skirt in public (see November's Antioch bar adventure). Gentlemen: thoughts?
Friday or Saturday I will be bravely go where I have never gone before: into public, probably mildly if not heavily intoxicated (OK, I've done both of those before), wearing a kilt. Expect an interesting Monday morning post.

(Notice how the subject has shifted emphasis from the "comma [,]" addressed in earlier posting to "colon [:]". Is this some new sort of rectal fixation, or simply an attempt to shift focus away from the impending "comma" epidemic? Only time will tell.)

What is wrong with my brain?

Good evening, beasts of the morning, er...
So, tomorrow will mark the one year anniversary of me turning 21 and, assuming that I live through a night of heavy drinking and failed attempts at consenual copulation, it will mean that I have been a raging pulic alcoholic for one year and not died. This is an accomplishment which will be celebrated with, you guessed it, more drinking. See: next weekend.
I use, way, too many, commas and, I admit that. You, ha,ve been, warned,. I feel that I must explain my overuse of commas. I write this as I would speak this. Which is to say, pausing for dramatic effect at each and every opportunity, probably for no reason other than to be as irritating as possible at any given moment. Either that or I have no idea how to turn one overly long run-on sentence into two sentences of acceptable length. Fuck you, I don't care.
Saturday night was full or dissapointment, thriumphantness (is that a word?) and exhiliration. In no particluar order. I went out with Ian, friend and co-worker from two jobs and fellow car enthuisiast. My goal for Saturday night was to associate with the womens. This was not unsuccessful, but not successful in the least. We headed to the a local bar which has a single female population equivalent to that of my basement, which is to say, less than a few (for clarification, I don't even have a basement). We shot pool and shot the shit until co-workers arrived. After $60 worth of beer, we decided it was time to leave and were on our way out when I was stopped a girl I've known for a while. Long story short, by telling her I don't care and that I will never, ever ever ever call her, I greatly (and I mean greatly) improved my chances of getting laid in the future. Thus affirming the idea that women want assholes. Long story short: Ian and I took some turns in his insanely fast and highly-tuned supercar, spun some doughnuts and I passed out on my dads floor shortly after the adrenaline wore off.
For some reason I am reminded of the time Brandon (you fucker) decided to tell me that there was a huge quantity of black smoke coming out of the back of my car after asking me 4 or 5 times if I was barbecuing, which I was not. I was driving and couldn't figure out for the love of god why I was being asked such an assinine question. I sold that car for $400 more than I paid for it and hadn't changed the oil in over 15,000 miles. No wonder shit was on fire.
The moral of the story is: There is no moral.

Seacliff?

I just experienced a glorious and terrible moment in the life of a single male. Here I am, playing corporate, operating on way too little sleep, regretting the previous nights occurances, and checking personals on CL at - I shit you not - 7:30 in the morning.
Not only that but I found myself wondering "Where in the fuck is Seacliff?" seeing as there are currently single girls there and I don't even know where it is (apparently located somewhere in the greater Bay Area???). No plans for tomorrow night. A new low.

Songs I have stuck in my head (all playing at once, of course)
-Buck 65 - Roses and Bluejays
-Magnet - Little Miss More or Less
-Immortal Technique - Cause of Death