The Demo Site

I have a very dear friend who likes cars more than I do, but hardly knows a thing about them. She knows all the necessary truths: (1) Ferraris and Lamborghinis are hot Italians, (2) Aston Martins and Rolls-Royces are sub-zero cool, and (3) the McLaren Technology Centre really is the earthbound home of the Galactic Empire.  But when I make an effort to explain intricacies of the car industry other than the above points, she is hopelessly drowned in the puke of automotive gobbledygook that fountains out of my mouth like Mr. Creosote’s stomach contents.

And it’s all my bloody fault, because if I would only keep my festering journalist gob shut, my lovely friend could blissfully enjoy the beautiful semi-ignorance of knowing such basic facts about cars. There’s simply no need for the true car connoisseur to know that Saabs are made by General Motors and that car nerds the world over are climaxing over the fact that Audi is putting a V10 in the R8.

“Nothing is less pleasant than going to dinner and having to listen to a petrolhead spout off all night about the brilliance of the Nissan GT-R.”

This puts me into a bit of a tight spot, since I know more than I should about cars, and this brings one dangerously close to becoming a remarkably dull, fully-rigged, grade-A pillock that has no chance at ever having a wife and children that love him.  Why such strong language? Well, in my opinion, nothing is less pleasant than going to dinner and having to listen to some petrolhead spout off all night about the brilliance of the Nissan GT-R.  It’s like dining with a Porsche mechanic.  The massive dearth of personality there is so great that black holes usually form in such people.  No, not those black holes. Astrological black holes.  Great pinpoints of nothingness.  Such is the personality of a petrolhead.

The desire to have friends and be a normal person is a constant reminder that if I value my life, I better not bite off more car culture than I can chew.  But then I get all misty-eyed whenever I watch TopGear or read Peter Egan, and remember how fun being a car nerd is.  Do I sacrifice my personality to the autogods and become a willing slave to Things On Four Wheels? Or do I remain distant and loose my childhood sense of wonder whenever a Lamborghini drives by?

I see the discovery of middle ground in this war as my own personal quest for the Holy Grail.  How do I remain an honorable, intelligent fellow who appreciates automobiles without turning into a hopeless nimrod who mumbles all day about spanners and sequential gearboxes?

This quest has all sorts of grand and epic obstacles, yet the greatest one currently is my age.  For those of you who don’t know, most of the stuff I ‘blog’ about is all outrageous, pretentious fiction about my mild-mannered alter-ego, a world-weary globe-trotting motoring journalist who lives a glamorous, solid-gold existence in the south of California.  In real life, I’m a hopelessly pedantic student living in Florida, America’s graveyard with palmetto-lined boulevards.  Yes, it’s true.  Sorry to shatter your grandiose images of the Great Tarmac Philosopher.

“If only I wrote educated columns on politics, literature, poetry, and medicine rather than bootless gushings about Lamborghinis and Aston Martins, I might actually be able to call myself a success story of modern education.  But alas, it’s no use.”

The Tarmac Philosopher is, in essence, my online barf bag where I hurl my automotive nerdgasms so my friends and family don’t have to suffer.  Instead, I suffer silently, along with you, my beloved 3 readers, who suffer with me as I belly-flop into my petrol-filled imaginarium on a semi-weekly basis.  Okay, I don’t really suffer.  I actually enjoy spewing out The Tarmac Philosopher.  But at the same time, I have that nagging feeling in the back of my bulbous brain that what I write is as respectable as being the Greatest Paladin Ever in the World of Warcraft.  If only I wrote educated columns on politics, literature, poetry, and medicine rather than bootless gushings about Lamborghinis and Aston Martins, I might actually be able to call myself a success story of modern education.  But alas, it’s no use.

My mum is a perfect anecdotal example of why The Tarmac Philosopher is necessary for my well-being, even if it is a sorry method.  Driving in the car with her and having the first Jaguar XF I have ever seen drive by us is infuriatingly frustrating.  I point it out with all the youthful exuberance of a professional adolescent car-spotter, only to receive a lovingly supercilious and slightly perplexed expression of “so what?”

“So what? Jaguar’s revolutionary, messianic sedan just drove by, that’s what!”
“Oh.”

It doesn’t end there.  Most of my friends have the same innocent obliviousness towards cars, and the ones I know for certain find cars interesting are closet cases.  How can I tell? If I point out a particularly superb vehicle, they will glance at it for approximately 5 seconds longer than the disinterested friends.  Ah, good people! I understand your dilemma.

Ultimately, I have decided to remain cool and collected about my love for cars. I have decided to utilize it for the good of my future and my education, and hone my writing skills by continuing this futile blog.  As The Tarmac Philosopher evolves, I hope to expand my horizons a bit and apply what textbooks and teachers have taught me to the medium which I have chosen.  Personally, I don’t believe in the theory of evolution, but I do believe I can work a little intelligent design on my writing and my ability to convey ideas and emotions to my readers.  Stick with me, fellow car nerds!  Into the bright future we shall walk united and content, while speaking softly and carrying a big key fob.