Girls wave when Chico borrows my car. He’s on the BF staff. Blogfinger photo
By Paul Goldfinger, Editor @Blogfinger.net. Topic: conversing with anonymous Dickheads.
Scene 1: Ocean Grove, parked at the curb on Delaware Avenue. It was one of those gridlock summer weekends, and I leave my car at the corner where Delaware intersects Main Ave. To my left is the funeral home. When I come back, there is a note on my windshield:
“Why don’t you take some parking lessons, Dickhead.”
I examined my parking job and judged it to be just fine. I thought:
“Why did this person go to the trouble to find fault with my parking…… and also to take an interest in my education? This was a very unsatisfying conversation where my assailant had the last word and I was left with the title of a blues song, “The Dickhead Blues,” which remains to be written and performed by some West Virginia bluesmen. And why call me “Dickhead ?”
I can only imagine what the roots of that insulting name are. The Urban Dictionary defines it as ” a stupid, irritating, or ridiculous person, particularly a man,” but that doesn’t fit to describe my parking job.
So my answer to that person, my half of the conversation, is, if they are reading this is, “NO….you are the Dickhead!”
Scene 2: Asbury Park mid-day, and hotter than Heck Avenue. I am driving my snazzy sports-car, top up. (This means the top is closed.)
But this time, on Sunset Avenue heading east, a warning light illuminates the dash with a glaring yellow color: “Your car is overheating, and you must drive slow to let it cool down.” I already am doing 25 mph, so as I approach the corner of Sunset and Main, I take that right turn very slowly, fearful of burning out my engine.
As I am in mid-turn, a female voice yells, out of nowhere, “You’re too old to drive that car!” Then I see her in the mirror—a bike rider trying to pass on the right. She zooms by and vanishes after dropping that verbal stink bomb.
I want to explain my situation to her so that she would think I’m too sexy for my car. As I complete the turn, the warning light turns red and the car stops running as if to say to me, “You are too old for this car. Pull over and check yourself into the nearest nursing home.”
Well, once again I have a half conversation with an anonymous Dickead and she has vanished, heading for the A. Park beach. I’m thinking, “She can’t possibly look good in a bikini.”
That is why I plan to write a song “The Dickhead Blues” and perform it at the Chamber of Commercials British car show accompanied by my ukulele and its 4 chords (C—A—-F—and A minor)
But wait, Johnny Cash will now instead perform a blues song for us. “The Folsom Prison Blues:” (But what about “The Dickhead Blues?”—I am reserving that piece for the next organization in town that schedules another Dickheaded grid-lock event in the Grove.)