In which I explain myself. Sort of.

I do a lot of my best thinking in cars. So, when I found myself in traffic a few weeks ago as I returned to my Chicago home from some far-flung suburb, I did my best to quell the swelling hatred I inevitably feel toward my fellow drivers, and focus instead on the pleasant hum of my own thoughts and the incipient death-rattle of my 1991 Subaru Legacy.

Ah, yes, the Subaru: affectionately nicknamed "Legy," when I noticed that the "a" and "c" had fallen off her jaunty silver nameplate, probably sometime during the second Clinton administration. When I bought her, Legy was 13 years old and bravely fending off the ravages of Street and San's brutal winter street-salting policy, which ensures not only that ice doesn't stand a chance, but that ice's children and children's children will be sent to an early, and watery, grave. I paid $900 for Legy and have put about twice as much back in to repair the brakes, gas line, a couple valves, and other random doodads. Not a great investment, and truth be told, I bought a car only because I needed one for my current job, on which more later. But Legy's got a lot of vim and vigor despite her age, and her sporty engine accelerates like a dream. Sadly, she's rusting out bit by bit, spewing smoke when I turn the key, and her shocks are completely shot, hence the rattle mentioned above.

So, there I was, ensconced in my ersatz chariot, somewhere between suburban Countryside and my neighborhood, Logan Square, when I thought to myself, "Gee, wouldn't it be neat to write about myself and the things I like and put it on the Internet?"

Ah, the revelation that launched a thousand dubious entries.

But, alas, here I am--not quite ready or willing for Xtreme Confessionz, but hoping at least to be interesting. It's such a fine line between stupid and clever, after all.