This morning I woke to a Johnny Cash mood. I slipped into my black slacks and fitted white shirt, eased on my uber-trendy polished black shoes, shrugged into my black leather jacket, popped some sleek black sunnies on my face, and strolled out to my truck. I fired the engine and pushed in my Folsom Prison CD.
I was slick, I was bad, I was the dangerous beating heart of cool. I flicked on the windshield wipers. They skidded across a thin sheen of ice.
I don’t care who you are, or how you’re dressed — there’s just no way to look cool when you’re standing on tippy-toes with a bright blue window scraper in your hand, struggling to clear the center part of your windshield. I wonder if Johnny Cash ever had to clean his windshield.
I’ve got to start parking in the garage.
