I Heart Traffic

Allright my darlings...for Christmas I received what is to go down in history as one of the greatest gifts OF ALL TIME. "Is she exaggerating?" you ask. The answer is NO. I am not prone to exaggeration when it comes to gadgets. It either rocks or does not.

"What is this gadget?" you're wondering. "And why is Grae so convinced she knows my inner monologue?" My papa bear gave me Sirius satellite radio for both my car and home...although daunting to hook up, it is phenomenal. I hope terrestrial radio goes down in flames. My car rides have gone from zero to 60 in NO TIME AT ALL (did ya like that car humor? Huh? Bueller?...)

Satellite radio has the power to make everyone on the planet happy. It can stop road rage. It can slice, dice, and julienne fries. It might stop the war in Iraq. It will keep that affair you had with your pool boy a secret. My Precious has been activated for three days, and I feel comfortable making the declaration that SATELLITE RADIO COULD VERY WELL SAVE CIVILIZATION FROM AN UNTIMELY END.

Case in point: The other night, the Mighty G calls me up. She is all in a tizzy about having to spend her entire day off dealing with the yahoo's at AT&T. She lost her cell phone and they were unprepared to deal with this problem (and her). When the Mighty G gets a bee in her bonnet, you look out. Step aside, because that bitch is intense and will snap your neck before you can say "nighttime minutes." Anyway, she is on a verbal rampage and my ear is starting to hurt. I let her get it all out. Okay, I actually let her get about half of it out, because after 24 solid minutes of her screaming things like, "How do they put their shoes on in the morning, those stupid jackasses?! How dare they lose all my voicemail messages!" I can't take it anymore. I tell her that we're going to either see a movie or drink. She gets in the car and is on her way.

We begin the night by climbing into my Jetta. She is tired and a little ragged. She is annoyed that I don't have it properly installed yet and have to put some wires and the Sirius receiver in her lap. Her breathing is labored and angry. Then she starts flipping channels, remarking on how varied the selction is. "Radio Prague?!" she squeals. WIth each turn of the knob, she lightens up.

Then it happened.

"Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard.

Top-of-the-lungs singing ensues. Laughter. Inquisitions as to what the lyrics actually fucking mean, since they make little to no sense.

And the night was saved.

Now that the problem of tunage is solved, one problem remains. My commutes to work, the VW shop, the store, etc, are all too short. I don't have enough time to enjoy my satellite. So get in your cars and drive, Angelinos. Mama wants to hear some Paula Abdul, Elton John, and Ween...all on one station.

KaPow!g