Holy Overwhelming Sense of Powerlessness!

Quite recently, my car was broken into.

In this instance where the realms of automotive well-being and universally accepted bad luck have collided, it is not the specific event that has left me seething with a targetless anger, but the way in which it was carried out. This attempted crime -- be it non-creative vandalism, ill-advised stereo thievery, or just plain old, full-bore car theft -- is offensive in its very half-assedness.

I don't care how quickly, quietly, or expertly these crooks operated -- although they fall nowhere within the dominion of those three adverbs -- whatever they did, they did with a partial ass. Clearly, they were not raised under the auspices of "Hey, when you're out there in the world, don't rob people." But they also were not reared in an environment where their parental figure, or parental figure-like crime boss, would bother to say, "Hey, if you are actually out there robbing people, try and do a decent job of it."

Nope, not these guys.

I'm betting they were just jazzed by completing the first successful step of their grand criminal scheme. Local police like to call this step, Step One: Locating A Honda Civic Parked In A Dark Corner At 3:29 A.M. This, they got right.

So excited were they by the accomplishment of Step One, that they lunged, hearts brimming with pride, right into Step Two: Smashing In The Passenger Side Window With A Brick.

Yeah, these dudes were skillful. They really broke that window all to hell. So much so that when I vacuumed out my car, I found tiny, little, adorable pieces of glass everywhere.

It was not unlike taking a romantic jaunt to the beach with a nice young lady. In that instance, you skip back to the car, the sun shining down on a world where no one ever would think of breaking your windows, and you jump into the bucket seats, laughing about the sand getting everywhere. And for at least a month or two afterwards, every time you grab the stick shift, or reach for a piece of conveniently located dashboard console chewing gum, or just move a little in your seat, you feel a tiny, gritty reminder of that one time when you were so effusive, you actually didn't worry about personal cleanliness for five minutes.

Only now, as I spent a good forty-five minutes suctioning safety glass from my upholstery, I was aware of the flip-side of this phenomenon. Now, for as long as I own this specific car, I will continue to find tiny, blue-rimmed niblets of automotive glass.

November 8, 2005: Hey, there's a little glass shard in my laminated road map. Ah, delightful.

February 12, 2006: Well, there appears to be a gobbet of safety glass lodged in the bridge of my sunglasses. So I've been wearing these for a couple months without noticing that? Good times, good times.

December 23, 2007: Hello! That's a chunk of glass attempting to snuggle inside my rectum, just as I try to merge onto the freeway. Thanks, life.

And no, I'm not going to point out, erroneously and only for the sake of cheap comedy, that safety glass "is neither safe, nor glass." I understand the concept.

In the old days, auto glass was made of big, unwieldy, thoroughly dangerous slabs. Massive glass pieces that were only helpful in that they were semi-transparent. Aside from that, they were altogether deadly. All it took was a tiny tap to the bumper in front of you, and your family wouldn't need to worry about whether to bury you wearing your favorite fedora.

The fantastic thing about safety glass is that while it does not shear off into Trapper Keeper-sized shards at the slightest nudge and then decapitate you, it does shatter into miniscule pieces. And while these are not dagger-like in sharpness, they are still tiny pieces of jagged glass. And tiny pieces of jagged glass, no matter how perfectly square-shaped and cute, are still shitty to have around in large quantities.

So, not counting the damage to your car that is not in excess of your deductible, now you're down about five bucks, because that's how many quarters you'll have to pump into the Suck-It-Up-Yourself auto-vac at the Wash-Your-Own-Goddamned-Car-For-A-Change-You-Elitist-Prick Car Wash on Venice and Redondo.

And really, that's where I take issue with my would-be thieves. Because, as you will see, that's all they amount to, in the end: would-be thieves. Actually, I would almost relegate them to could-be thieves.

After smashing the window, Buck and Donsky (not their real names) went right to work on Step Three: Taking Part In History's Lousiest Attempt At Removing A Car Stereo. Seriously, what were you using, Buck? A butter knife? And what was your back-up tool, Donsky? The blunt end of a hockey stick? Maybe you guys could have slathered the console in caramel, and let a burro lick at it for an hour or two. After what must have been a hilarious six minutes, they never completely removed my factory-installed CD player.

When I discovered it, the CD player face plate dangled pathetically, half out of the dashboard console. If stereos could whimper, this one would've been mewling like a kitten caught in a rainstorm. Ah, could-be thieves. I'm guessing you're not known as the "finesse guys" when you meet with your thief buddies at your local thief watering hole, The Rusty Crowbar. (Try the Breaking-and-Entering B.L.T. Platter -- you'll thank me later!) So there my CD player wavered, a baby tooth that you didn't want to wrench out in the middle of a second-grade math class.

Having successfully completed Step Three, B 'n D leapt face first into Step Four: Searching In Vain For Valuable Items Inside The Vehicle Of A Man Who Has Been Unemployed For The Better Part Of A Calendar Year.

And here's where the crime gets curious, true believers. They stole CDs. Compact discs. But they only stole four of them. I had five in the car at the time. In the interest of full disclosure, the thieves made off with:
- Hello Nasty, by Beastie Boys.
- The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust, by David Bowie.
- Saturation, by Urge Overkill.
- Another Round, by Dakota. (Linked on the top right of this page. They're really good.)

The CD they deemed not to take? Pinkerton, by Weezer. One of the finest albums of the '90s. And if you disagree with me, please remember that I have just been victimized and I have rage to spare.

The exclusion of that specific album is indeed vexing. This means I have either been robbed by (a) someone who knows of this album, understands its deep sociological importance to those who graduated high school roughly between the years 1991 and 2002, and took pity on me, or (b) a sick, twisted person who delights in the psychological torment of others. (Linked on the top right of this page. He's really good.)

Then, Buck and Donsky stumbled across Step Five: Insulting The Very Existence Of Your Victim By Stealing His Change. For real. They did this.

So now, every time I roll up to the Del Taco drive-thru at 2:14 a.m., or scrounge for quarters to wash one of my five t-shirts, I will vividly remember that, yes, my car was broken into. "You are never safe, Brad Stevens. Not in this life, nor the next. Because when you are reincarnated as a garden slug or a Colobus monkey, you'll still own a Honda Civic, and it'll still be the fourth most vandalized/stolen car on the market. Nice choice, by the way."

I discovered my abused car the following evening. I got angry. I felt helpless, victimized, a target of crooked bastards. And yes, I realize it could have been much worse. The car itself could've been stolen. Or the car could have been stolen, urinated inside of, and set on fire. Or I could have chanced upon the could-be thieves while they were in the process of breaking into the car. Boy, that would've been... awkward. "Uh... hey, guys. Yeah. That's... that's my car. Not done yet? I could... you know what? I'll just come back later. Okay, cool."

I simmered in a delicious anger broth. But who to blame? Buck and Donsky are nowhere to be found. If they do exist, and are the criminal masterminds they have demonstrated themselves to be, then surely they're partying it up at a Chili's in Torrance by now. No, no, Buck... go ahead and spring for the half-fries, half-onion rings basket. You've earned it.

I can't blame the local police. Judging by the mix of exhaustion and boredom that greeted my late-night appearance at the local precinct, this kind of thing wasn't exactly bringing out their inner, justice-obsessed, cop on the edge.

And I certainly am not going to blame myself. I think, as I have saddled myself with responsibility over personal relationships, general health, mental well-being, and working the word "obsequious" into everyday conversation, that I can cut myself a break in the area of obsessively guarding my car.

Really, there's only one guy to blame. Someone who should have my back. Someone whose very existence is meant to halt the Bucks and the Donskys of this chaotic world.

I blame Batman.

That's right. I blame Batman. Where was this so-called "Caped Crusader," huh? Where was your precious "Dark Avenger of the Night"? When the chips were down, where was ol' "Gray Sweatpants and Blue Cape Guy"? He wasn't watching over my Honda Civic, dear friends.

And don't give me that "his jurisdiction is only Gotham City" crap. The dude's got wings, a car, and a helicopter, last time I checked. He's probably even got some gay-ass rocket sled thing. The point is, crime knows no boundaries, and that winged S.O.B. can get around.

Also, don't even suggest that the crime which befell me is not serious enough to warrant Batman's assistance. Are we going to split hairs here?

"Oh, Batman knows a thing or two about actual serious, life-threatening crimes. After all, his parents were gunned down in cold blood by a common street thug." Yeah, I heard about that. And you know what I say? Boo-friggin'-hoo.

You wanna wage a war on crime, jackass? Start at the bottom and work your way up. Sure, Buck and Donsky don't spray acid at people, or have a weather-controlling machine, or hold the entire city at ransom with an army of genetically enhanced caribou. But their brazen window-smashing and CD-pilfering will quickly escalate into large-scale villainy. Why not nip it in the bud?

Where I come from, when you make a solemn oath to battle criminality in all its heinous forms, you do just that. Wherever the place, whatever the transgression. Get on it, Batman. I don't care if it's just some guy tossing a burrito wrapper on the ground -- I want something done about it, preferably involving a grappling hook and some smoke bombs.

So, maybe Batman's true colors are showing through. He doesn't really care about us. He's too busy making sure "Laguna Beach" is at the top of his TiVo Wish List. He's playing "Halo 2" in the Batcave and sending Alfred out for wasabi-flavored Funyuns. No, no... put up your feet, Batman. We'll just be out here, in the dark and the cold, getting victimized and stuff. See ya around, maybe.

And don't say to me, "Why not be angry at Superman, while you're at it? According to your reasoning, he'd be just as responsible." Because, smart guy, everyone knows that Superman doesn't exist. Don't be a child.

So, Batman, you're on the list. Stay out of my neighborhood. After all, you wouldn't want all the change stolen from your precious Batmobile.

You jerk.

A Pillow Case Full of Emotional Maturity, and Some Bit-O-Honeys

I really don't want to upset you, but politicians are just a bunch of fakes. Dubious, opportunistic, dishonest flim-flammers. There, I said it.

The same lessons that my parents gleaned from, say, Watergate and Vietnam, were thrust upon me on a chilly October night. The mayor lived down the street from me when I was a kid, and I witnessed his Boss Tweed-esque power grabs and shameless vote-mongering firsthand. And I think he tossed some gerrymandering in there, to boot.

Now, I don't intend to slander the man. I'm just angling for some moderate smearing here. Look, being the mayor of a mid-sized suburban city has gotta be a little trying. I'm sure he had his hands full, what with the intricacies of public park lawn mowing schedules, worrying if the height of the new Perkins sign jibed with zoning laws, and trying to stop kids from climbing the water tower near the middle school. So, I would allow a little duplicity on his part. But he distinctly targeted the youth of my town to sway our parents' votes. Bear witness, and prepare to have your faith in human decency shaken to its very foundation.

While he was in office, and especially in a year where he was running for re-election, he gave every trick-or-treater a Baby Ruth bar. I want to be absolutely clear on this issue: we are not talking about the "Fun-Size" Baby Ruth here. Nay. He would dispense full-sized Baby Ruth bars.

For added clarification, I'm not referring to the "King-Sized" ones, because they didn't have those when I was younger. And for the record, may I also take issue with the term "Fun-Size"? Is it "fun" to be given exactly .59 ounces of candy, and no more? Really, the current "King-Sized" candy bars should be called "Fun-Sized," and then "King-Sized" can be preserved for the day they make a Zagnut the size of the Moai heads on Easter Island. Then just call the tiny Baby Ruth bars "Thoroughly Insulting-Sized," and be done with it.

These distinctions are important, because a few years back, America's fine candymakers went crazy with the endless candy iterations. You had Kit Kats' "Big Kats," that were so ridiculously huge, they were often, tragically, mistaken for railroad ties. The problem in blowing up a Kit Kat to DeLuisian proportions is that it throws off the delicate balance of chocolate and sweetened fiberglass insulation strips that makes the candy so beloved in the first place.

Reese's Cups tried the same thing, with their "Big Cup," which, aside from sounding mildly inappropriate, also saddled you with way too much peanut butter. By around bite number three -- or, as it is known in candy circles, bite "tha-three" -- the filling took on the consistency of tub grout. Then you had a life-threatening peanut butter wad in your throat. I can't help but think that H. B. Reese's original mission statement for his company did not involve smothering the loyal consumer with four pounds of peanut butter.

But these Wonka-bees couldn't be stopped, not when there were scads of ways to mutate candy. They unleashed the "reverse" Reese's Cup, which was peanut butter on the outside, and chocolate creme on the inside. Patently unnecessary. Maybe someone will make grillable dough patties, and you can slap them in between two refrigerated slices of burger. Then, put your pants on backwards, dress your children as animals, and hot-glue your television to the ceiling, just to complete the illusion. This is candy, folks, not some bizarre sensory-depravation experiment.

Then there's the white chocolate Reese's Cup, which I guess was made specifically for a high-society dinner party, since the pre-existing Reese's Cups clashed with Lady Dorrington's Persian throw pillows. Really, why stop there, Reese's mad scientists? Why not paint tiny goatees on a Reese's Cup and call them Rafael Cups: Reese's Cups' Long Lost, Presumed Dead Evil Twin Brother? Or introduce Reese's Bleeding Cups, and pump a couple ounces of stage blood in there, so America's children can pretend they're a cast member from "Red Dawn," and eating a fistful of fresh deer meat?

It has to stop somewhere, yes? The laundromat near my apartment, while lacking the one cosmically unifying laundromat device -- a Ms. Pac-Man machine -- does have a vending machine with, honestly, six different varieties of Skittles. Tropical Punch. Sour. Original Gangsta Skittles. Cran-Banana-Berry-tastic. Gravy-Dipped. Heroes of the French-Indian War Flavored Skittles.

The endless tampering with time-tested foodstuffs calls to mind the Cap'n Crunch offshoot called, "Oops! All Berries!" It's really encouraging that Quaker Oats responded to the overwhelming demand for a berry-centric breakfast cereal, but why do they feel the need to have an actual explanation for the product's existence? And why must said explanation involve some sort of factory mishap? Especially one that appears to be a major processing snafu at the Crunch Berries sorting facility in White Plains, New York.

"Yipes! Shift supervisor Randy McClellan forgot to properly lubricate the Hydraulic Berry Dispenser! We could start over, but our CEO is a diminutive sea captain, and his mind has been warped by scurvy! So now our egregious error is a cereal!"

"Uh-oh! Our vice-president Trent Connersly just found out that his wife is leaving him for a younger man! And that means he's on the booze again! Cap'n would fire Trent, but he saved the then-Petty Offic'r Crunch's life during the war! Nonetheless, that doesn't mean you can't enjoy the by-product of Connersly's precipitous slide into self-destruction!"

"Yowza! We have absolutely no idea how to safely package food! We're just making this up as we go along, people! Your very purchase is a gamble with mortality! Therefore, enjoy our new Cap'n Crunch's 'Oops! All Glass Shards!' Cereal!"

So, yeah... the town's mayor lived just down the street, and every year he'd give us the large Baby Ruth bars. It wouldn't have seemed odd, save for the first Halloween following his defeat in the mayoral election. That year, due to either campaign overspending, or, more likely, sheer spite towards the good people of warm and cheerful Centerville, he handed out tiny boxes of Boston Baked Beans.

Boston Baked Beans are not actual beans, nor are they baked. They're candy-coated peanuts. And they are made by a candy company based out of Chicago. So I guess Half-Assed, No-Chocolate-Having M&M's From Northern Illinois wouldn't fit on the box.

There I stood, my homemade mummy costume -- a couple rolls of Charmin single-ply -- blowing in tatters down the street, my feet cold from traipsing through dewy lawns. From now on, things would be different. Confusing, frustrating, and far too big for me to comprehend.

The harvest moon hung bloated and orange in the night sky. Somewhere, a dog barked. And the American two-party political system creaked forward, unbeknownst to the nameless, faceless horde.

And elsewhere, in a darkened office, an old man dreamt of a Junior Mint the size of a hubcap. And he laughed, long and hard.