Don't Yuck My Yum

Every Thursday is "Back to the 50s" night in the downtown area of the suburb I live in. People from around the area drive their refurbished vintage vehicles to the parking spots lining the main drag and pop the hoods so passers-by can peer inside. The cars are so polished they look almost tasty.

It's really a brilliant marketing tool, this car night. All the antique stores and real estate offices stay open late, and the two Mexican restaurants are overflowing with people, when on all other nights I see only a few families or couples tucking in as I take my nightly stroll from the trolley to my apartment.

Downtown (and think Small Town America downtown, not thriving metropolis downtown) takes on a carnival atmosphere, and people line folding chairs along the street. I haven't yet ascertained a reason for so doing; I don't think any of the cars actually move in a parade-like fashion after being parked.

I'm just going to be straight with you: I don't get it. Of all the things to bring people together, especially in hippy-dippy California, why the bamboozle would it be cars? Did I mention that the car dealership down the road currently has a HEARSE for sale?? Where the hell do I live???

But to each his own, and all that jazz. I was listening to a story on NPR the other day narrated by a single dad. His son was using broccoli florets to paint pictures with ketchup and then gobbling it all up. The papa reacted with disgust, asking why he would do that. "Don't yuck my yum," the son replied. The phrase has repeated in my head ever since, and inspired this post.