Dylan Bolin

The Big Three are back in Washington today.  Of course I’m referring to the Father, Son and Chrysler.  After their dressing down the last time they were in Washington, they flew back to Detroit, formulated a plan to cut 20,000 more middle class jobs, drove back in Hybrids and asked for even more money.  As long as we’re making them sing for their supper, let’s go further with it.  Let’s make them dress up like French Maids and serve tea.  Let’s lock them in a closet and make them play “Seven Minutes in Heaven.”  Let’s make them fight like gladiators and the winner gets the money. 

I wonder why we didn’t make the Wall Street firms dance like this.

All the while, ads for automobiles are airing on television.  You’ve seen them.  A man covers his wife’s eyes and leads her outside to reveal a brand spankin’ new ride with a huge red ribbon on it.  I can’t help but wonder:  Who are these people?  Is there really a segment of our society that exchanges automobiles for the Holidays?  Maybe it’s because the automotive companies are sitting in front of Congress begging for a loan, but the car commercials always seem to ring hollow and sheepish.  There’s an air of desperation in them.  But if we consumers are to take on debt that loses value the minute you drive it off the lot, to be effective, the auto makers are going to have to appeal to our Lizard Brain.  I think the commercials will also have to be apropos of the Holiday Season in which we currently find ourselves.  In an effort to, in my own small part, help the American Auto Industry get back on all four, fully-inflated tires, I’ve created the following commercial:

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Exterior/Bethlehem/Night

A choir of angels sing while Joseph, Mary and two wise men are gathered around a manger.  Suddenly, “Slow Ride” by Foghat begins to play.  A powerful wind blows the halos from the heads of the angels while lifting their robes to reveal the newest Victoria’s Secret fashions. 

Cut to:

The Third Wise Man driving in a Pontiac Firebird.  He wears aviator sunglasses and a cigarette dangles rakishly from his mouth.  On the dash is a Northstar of Bethlehem GPS system leading him to a destination titled:  “David, City of.”

Cut to:

Mary, Joseph and the Two Wise Men looking on in shock.  The angels are wrestling.  The Firebird skids into frame, covering the onlookers in a cloud of desert dust. 

Close Up of the ground and lower portion of the driver’s door.  It opens and a couple Budweiser cans fall out.  The cigarette drops and is crushed by an ostrich skin boot.  Pan up to the Wise Man as he says:  “Hey Kid.”  He tosses the keys.  They rise into the sky and, for a moment, become a brilliant star.

Cut to:

The stable as the keys fall into the manger and we hear a baby say:  “Sweet.”  The angels coo and strut towards the camera.

Cut to:

Close up of the Third Wise Man’s sunglasses.  The angels are reflected in them as the Wise Man smirks.

Logo.  Fade to Black.

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Now that would make me take on and additional $25,000 worth of bad debt.  This one’s on me, American Auto Industry.  I’d be happy to produce it for you for a mere $34 Billion.

-Dylan

My wife recently turned 30 years old, and I couldn’t be happier for her.  I know it’s considered bad form to ask or reveal a woman’s age, but I think that particular tradition is a remnant of the days when our life expectancy was around 35.  These days, I’m not so sure.  After all, now we have shows like Talk Sex with Sue Johanson who just turned 78.  (Full Disclosure:  Sue Johanson is Canadian, and with the current exchange rate, that puts her around Sex and the City’s Kim Cattrall in American years, but that’s still pretty impressive.)

And maybe it’s different for women, but my 30’s were, thus far, the best years of my life.  My 20’s were filled with drama.  In fact, they were merely an extension of my teens with the addition of alcohol, which served to turn the ”Bad Decision” knob up to 11.  Of course, I didn’t recognize that then.  It’s only from the lofty perch of my present age that I can chuckle nostalgically at that foolish young man.

But your 20’s are all about drama; testing your capacity for love and mortality, howling at the moon and calling out God.  I like to picture God, holding me at arm’s length, His hand on my forehead while I swing away like a toddler throwing a tantrum screaming:  “It’s not fair!  It’s not fair!”  Then I tire and fall asleep and in the morning we hug it out.

In our 20’s, the drama defines us.  We fling ourselves against every perceived boundary, hoping for a breakthrough while bracing for rejection.  Like visceral cartographers, we use the data to draw the Map of Our Self.  Eventually, we chill.  We begin to seek balance instead of drama.  For me, that happened in my 30’s. 

My 30’s offered a drama of their own.  My father died at 33, so if his life was any indication of mine, my days were numbered.  As it turned out, my timeline was very different from his.  While this took a lot of getting used to, gradually, panic was replaced with peace. 

Now, I stand in the twilight of my 30’s.  In just a few days, I will turn 39, which is the lamest birthday I can imagine.  It’s like the last 5 feet of The Green Mile.  “Dead man walkin’…still.  Still walkin’.”

But I’m looking forward to my 40’s.  As a younger man, I always thought that things would get better with age.  While this is not necessarily the case for my mid-section, back and knees, it certainly holds true for my head and heart.  And also on the plus side, 39 gives me a full year to prepare for the Joy of the Prostate Exam.  Maybe Sue Johanson has some tips on how I can make it pleasurable.  I also look forward to looking back on this post and laughing at how I thought I had it all figured out.

One thing that won’t change, however, is my sincere wish that, for my wife, her 30’s will be the best years of her life.