what's cooler that being cool?

ICE COLD: the lyrics of outkast resonate across Northville. Is it really that cold? Not so much, unless you're homeless. But for the lucky ones, the major problem has been driving around the backstreets. And Smashmouth, what's wrong with the backstreets is the ice. The shittyness of the roads really hit me on Sunday on our way to church, to church, mind you. We were as usuall running about 10 minutes late, and for some reason mom told me to drive in her car. Flying down Valencia at 27mph, we came about 50 yard before seven mile when the car decided to be a bitch and loose traction. As I desperately tried to aviod a Volvo sandwich with the cross traffic on seven mile I pumped the brakes, tried to cut the wheel any way, and finally tried to pull a Diehard and do one of those sweet 90 degree brake things. Well, I skidded into seven mile and as I hit the right lane skidded sideways and things were good. Mom barely even noticed, except for the part where I was like, "ohh shit, ohh shit, ohh shit, damnit I'm goin' to church!". Seriously God saved my life on that one.

On a lighter note, I was hanging out at one of my favorite families' houses, the Hagans, last night. Nothing too out of the ordinary. As usual, Mike decided not to shovel the driveway when it first snowed, so much like Valencia, there was about a 3 inch layer of solid ice on the driveway; the smooth kind. So after doing some mischeveious teenager stuff, we came back to Mike's house. I pulled into the driveway and immediately slipped all the way back down into the street. Mike and I looked at each other and without speaking we knew what had to be done. I backed up into the snowbank behind me, put it in first gear, and floored it. Fighting the whiplash, we hit the curb, heard something smack, and flew up the drive. I floored it the whole way, and we still got zero traction, but the Dragsteresque acceleration proved to be sufficient enough to barely push us over the hump, and into the spot beneath the b-ball hoop.

Not the same for Bardsley. Before telling this part, it must be known that Jonathan is British, and hence not assimilated to American driving. When he decided to leave the party for a movie with his 'other' friends, he naively tried to back out of the circle drive. After he leaves, Mike and I are hangin in the basement watching some Vietnam war thing when he gets a call. "It's Bardsley, he says he's dying out here". Immediately my swimming and lifeguarding instincts kicked in, and I ran to save a life. Jacket, shoes, and hat all seem to put themselves on as we break out of the front door and hear an engine reving. Full of disappointment, I walked out to see what Jon did and slipped and fell on my ass. Somehow Jon managed to t-bone himself with the driveway and was like a baby gazelle with a broken leg on the savanah; trying so hard but about to be eaten alive. Unless we helped him. Mike grabbed some old mats and threw then under the ford's front wheels. With a series of pushes we spun his car and set him on his way. What great friends we are.

It should also be noted that Mike's dog, Sadie, took a dump in the basement. It stunk. Word.