As Far As I’m Concerned . . .

by Little Miss Attila on March 15, 2009

One day isn’t enough to honor the legendary Iowahawk. Nope: it’s still Iowahawk weekend until I go to bed tonight.

Those of you who are doing this right will have spent the past 72 hours partying, getting nice tatts, racing hot rods, cussing in Spanglish, or appreciating vintage Americana.

Burge’s open thread on “National Me Day” is here.

Protein Wisdom has a tributes here and here; Stacy McCain’s is here, and best appreciated by those who have read Mr. Burge’s sendups of the psuedo-conservative upper crust. Cynthia‘s has a very nice classic I-Hawk vid that rips “Congressional Motors” to shreds, but still has some cool footage of cleverly engineered itty-bitty mini-cars. (Including the Citicar, which is a bit boxy, but still runs—and was designed by Chris Muir‘s dad; specs on it were physically similar to those for the “SmartCar”—notably, that the length of the vehicle is the same as a standard car’s width, so the car can physically be parked perpendicular to a street, even where there is only space for parallel parking. The latter, of course, has a standard combustion engine and is freeway-legal; oh, yes: and, my ex informs me, the Smart4Two is a “chick magnet,” which leaves me to bemoan my only moderately intelligent Cruiser—and smoke his ass if I need to. I love the immediacy of a well made four-cylinder: everything it has is right there. Right now. Speaking of which, a lot of driving simply has to do with attitude; I love it when a gang of 20-something males with those oversized black earrings pull ahead of me in their little imports. I usually wait a minute or two, and then cruise right by them with my sunroof open and my long hair waving in the wind.

Then I come home to celebrate. Because, really: every day is Iowahawk Day, when you come right down to it. Just as every day is Independence Day.)

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