Car dealerships and casinos: from the sausagefest to the retirement home

Due to our inability to procure a housing unit, Halbastram and I have decided instead to purchase a new automobile. Wait, let me rephrase that: Halbastram is eager to buy a new car, as his "work" vehicle doesn't hold heat in the winter and the tires could possibly kill him and he'd rather live while driving a warmer, friendlier automobile.

So, despite my protests, we did the good suburban thing and spent our Saturday afternoon at the local Honda dealership, trying to not draw attention to ourselves so the sales-hungry ex-jocko salesmen would keep their distance.

Before I received my raise at the 'R', Halbastram suggested that I try to work as a cashier at a car dealership, because, according to him, the guys working at the dealership would provide me with endless stories which could be turned into some sort of book.

I find nothing appealling about failed jocks trying to push expensive, crappy vehicles on poor unsuspecting people who have Camry money, yet are trying to buy BMWs.

This Honda dealership was no exception. When we walked into the showroom, the first thing I noticed was brown slacks/white shirts/red ties suburban clones huddled at the front desk, drinking from styrofoam cups, sizing us up, deciding whether or not we were worth walking away from the discussion about boats, boating and fishing (their actual conversation...not my own biased opinion) to fuss with us.

Luckily we were not worth the interruption.

The few sales men who weren't discussing the joys of outdoor living were bothering the poor cashier, who couldn't have been any older than 19, flirting, trying to prove to themselves that, despite middle age, they still had it going on.

Yeah, I could I not want that job?

I'm not usually such a feminist bitch...I just hate car salesmen. Especially the ones in Lisle.

After an unnecessarily long time looking at and driving the Honda Accord (it's crappy), I decided that, to make up for my wasted late afternoon, we should venture down to the local trashy casino.

I have this really soft spot for video slot machines, lottery tickets, and flashing lights telling me that I've lost an inexcusable amount of money, so I enjoy going to the casino thoroughly. Whenever I am out in Colorado visiting my in-laws, I make sure to include a trip to the mountain town of Blackhawk to try my hand at the dozens of dazzling casinos...and to look sadly at the land that once belonged to my Native people...but it's mostly for the casinos.

My Cherokee ancestors are frowning at me right now.

Anywho.

As I stated in a previous blog on Myspace, when I go to this particular casino in Aurora, I am usually the youngest person there, not counting the employees. And I always feel that the older crowd doesn't want me there. As I walk past to find a suitable penny slot machine, I'm met with cold fixed-income stares, like I'm invading their turf, the one place they can go, other than their home, to get away from people like me.

I've never been to the casino on a Saturday night, and I know why: every senior citizen in the western burbs is there. Halbastram and I lost $40 within 20 minutes and decided that we couldn't really find a machine that we were digging and chalked up our losing to just settling on available machines.

So we bounced, opting to check out the local Aurora street fest going on. Overall, there wasn't anything exciting about it except for the $2 Miller Lites. For that price, I was willing to put up with the trashy crowd and the Southern rock band, Molly Hatchet, who were the main attraction.

Yup, I'm that easy.

However...after spilling my one and only beer (it was because something buzzed in my ear, I swear!!), we had to depart, since I smelled like a Miller factory.

So off we went, to our homestead, in pursue of Svengoolie, lottery tickets and Heineken Premium Light bottles.

Suburban life is good.